Prose 

MISCELLANIE 


Thos.  E»  Watson 


FOURTH  EDITION 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  TOM  WATSON  BOOK  COMPANY 

THOMSON,  GEORGIA 

1927 


it 


SENATOR  THOS.  E.  WATSON 


Prose  Miscellanies 


Thos.  E.  Watson 


FOURTH  EDITION 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE   TOM  WATSON    BOOK  CO. 

THOMSON.  GA. 
1927 


Copyright 

BY  THE  AUTHOR 

1912 


Copyright  By 

GEORGIA  WATSON  LEE  BROWN 

1927 


i     f  f>.> 


Dedication 


to 

Miss  Georgia  Durham 

TN  whose  pure  affection  and  loyal  soul' a  briefless  young  law- 
-"-  yer  found  favor  in  the  good  year  1877,  and  who  not  so  very 
long  afterwards — for  the  course  of  true  love,  as  from  time  im- 
memorial, did  not  run  smooth — became  Mrs.  Thos.  E.  Watson, 
and  who  has,  ever  since,  walked  the  long  path  by  his  side,  through 
health  and  through  sickness,  through  joy  and  through  sorrow, 
through  sunlight  and  through  the  tempest,  with  the  unfaltering 
devotion  of  the  typical  wife,  and  who  now  turns  with  him  to 
face  the  afternoon  of  life,  without  any  sort  of  fear,  and  with  the 
peace  of  soul  that  passes  understanding. 
April  7,  1912. 


589147 


Preface 

IN  every  individual,  there  are  several  natures;  and  the  loom 
of  Life  weaves  these  into  the  blend  that  make  up  our  record. 
The  shuttle  flies  back  and  forth,  from  one  extreme  to  the 
other,  as  the  Loom  relentlessly,  incessantly,  does  its  work;  and,  at 
most,  we  can  but  hope  that  the  finished  fabric  will  show  some 
golden  strands  where  the  web  and  the  woof  have  intertwined. 
To  most  of  us  there  come,  now  and  then,  bright  days  and  exalted 
moods.  The  angel  of  our  best  nature  hovers  about  us,  softening, 
refining,  inspiring.  We  forget  the  sordid  and  the  selfish;  we 
are  wrapt  in  communion  with  all  that  is  tender  and  noble  and 
true:  are  filled  with  the  beauty  of  nature  and  with  radiant 
thoughts. 

As  though  the  chords  of  our  harp  of  life  had  been  swept  by 
the  hand  of  some  Israfel,  we  respond,  in  chastened  meditation,  in 
tender  affection,  in  softened  expression. 

The  hurly,  burly  of  a  very  tempestuous  and  laborious  career, 
in  which  there  has  been  too  much  of  conflict  and  heart-burning, 
has  been  my  lot,  but,  there  have  visited  me,  at  brief  intervals, 
those  rarer  moods  of  calm  and  reflection,  of  quiet,  and  softer 
sentiment.  It  was  during  such  an  interval — and  they  were  far 
between — that  each  of  the  fugitive  pieces  were  written,  which, 
herein  collected,  are  called  "Prose  Miscellanies." 

THOS.  E.  WATSON. 
Thomson,  Ga.,  March  26,  1912. 


Southern  Pamphlets 

Rare  Book  Collection 

UNC-Chapel  Hill 


CONTENTS 
Planting  Corn    


Page 
..  7 
..   10 


The  New  Year 

A  Forgotten  Scholar 

20 
A  Tragedy  in  a  Tree-top 

24 
In  the  Mountains   • 

28 
Convalescent   

Glimpses  Behind  the  Curtain  ^^ 

44 
Not  Quite  

How  I  Came  to  Write  Napoleon  

At  Fifty 

Eccentricities  of  Nervous  People 

Dream  Children   

The  Oddities  of  the  Great   

73 
Bubbles  on  the  Stream 

A  Rose  on  the  Snow 

7Q 

Reverie  and  Suggestion  

As  It  Is  and  as  It  May  Be ^^ 

The  Song  of  the  Bar-room 

92 

The  Vulture   

The  Wine  Cup ^^ 

Toward  the  Light 

The  Country  Wife ^^^ 

The  Path  of  Glory  ^^_ 

Is  It  Worth  The  Price? 1^"^ 

The  Late ^^^ 

The  Old  Packet  Boat  by  the  James  H'' 

An  Incident  in  the  Life  of  E.  P.  Steed 119 

123 

Fortitude 


Planting  Corn 


'T^  HE  bluebird  was  out  today ;    out  in  his  glossiest  plumage, 
his  throat  gurgling  with  song. 

For  the  sunlight  was  warm  and  radiant  in  all  the  South, 
and  the  coming  spring  had  laid  its  benediction  on  every  field 
and  hedge  and  forest. 

The  smell  of  newly  plowed  ground  mingled  with  the  subtle 
incense  of  the  yellow  jasmine;  and  from  every  orchard,  a  shower 
of  the  blossoms  of  peach  and  apple  and  pear  was  wafted  into 
the  yard,  and  hung  lovingly  on  the  eaves  and  in  the  piazzas 
of  the  old  homestead — the  old  and  faded  homestead. 

Was  there  a  cloud  in  all  the  sky?    Not  one,  not  one. 

"Gee!  Mule!!!" 

"Dad  blast  your  hide,  why  don't  you  gee-e-EE!!" 
"Co-whack"   goes  the  plowline  on  the   back  of  the  patient 
mule — the  dignified  upholder  of  the  mortgages,  "time  piece"  ac- 
counts, and  the  family  credit,  generally. 

Down  the  furrow,  and  up  the  furrow,  down  to  the  woods, 
and  up  to  the  fence — there  they  go,  the  sturdy  plowman  and 
his  much-enduring  but  indispensable  mule. 

For  the  poplar  leaves  are  now  as  big  as  squirrel-ears,  and 
it's  "time  to  plant  corn." 

On  moves  the  plowman,  steady  as  a  clock,  silent  and  reflective. 

Right  after  him  comes  the  corn-dropper,  dropping  corn. 

The  grains  fairly  chink  as  the  bare  feet  of  the  corn-dropper 
hurry  past;  and  before  the  corn  has  well  cuddled  itself  into 
the  shoe-heel  of  the  plowman's  track,  down  comes  the  hoe  of 
the  "coverer" — and  then  the  seeds  pass  into  the  portals  of  the 
great  unknown;   the  unknown  of  burial  and  of  life  renewed. 

Peeping  from  the  thicket,  near  at  hand,  the  royal  redbird 
makes  note  of  what  is  going  on,  nor  is  the  thrasher  blind  to  the 
progress  of  the  corn-dropper.  And  seated  with  calm  but  watch- 
ful dignity  on  the  highest  pine  in  the  thicket,  is  the  melancholy 
crow,  sharpening  his  appetite  with  all  the  anticipated  pleasures 
of  simple  larceny. 

The  mocking  bird  circles  and  swoops  from  tree  to  tree,  and 
in  his  matchless  bursts  of  varied  song,  no  cadence  is  wanting, 
no  melody  missed. 

The  hum  of  the  bees  is  in  the  air;  white  butterflies,  like 
snowflakes,  fall  down  the  light  and  lazily  float  away. 

(7) 


8  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

The  robin  lingers  about  the  China  trees,  and  the  bluejay, 
lifting  his  plumed  frontlet,  picks  a  quarrel  with  every  feathered 
acquaintance,  and  noisily  asserts  his  grievances. 

The  joree  has  dived  deeper  into  the  thicket,  and  the  festive 
sapsucker,  he  of  the  scarlet  crest,  begins  to  come  to  the  front, 
inquisitive  as  to  the  location  of  bugs  and  worms. 

On  such  a  day,  such  a  cloudless,  radiant,  flower-sweetened 
day,  the  horseman  slackens  the  rein  as  he  rides  through  lanes 
and  quiet  fields;  and  he  dares  to  dream  that  the  children  of 
God  once  loved  each  other. 

On  such  a  day,  one  may  dream  that  the  time  might  come 
when  they  would  do  so  again. 

Rein  in  and  stop,  here  on  this  high  hill!  Look  north,  look 
east  where  the  sun  rises,  look  south,  look  west  where  the  sun 
sets — on  all  sides  the  steady  mule,  the  steady  plowman,  and  the 
children  dropping  corn. 

Close  the  eye  a  moment  and  look  at  the  picture  fancy  paints. 
Every  field  in  Georgia  is  there,  every  field  in  the  South  is  there. 
And  in  each,  the  figures  are  the  same — the  steady  mule  and 
the  steady  man,  and  the  pattering  feet  of  the  children  dropping 
corn. 

In  these  furrows,  lies  the  food  of  the  republic;  on  these  fields, 
depend  life,  and  health  and  happiness. 

Halt  those  children,  and  see  how  the  cheek  of  the  world  would 
blanche  at  the  thought  of  famine ! 

Paralyze  that  plowman — and   see   how  national   bankruptcy 
would  shatter  every  city  in  the  Union. 

Dropping  corn!    A  simple  thing,  you  say. 

And  yet,  as  those  white  seeds  rattled  down  to  the  sod  and 
hide  away  for  a  season,  it  needs  no  peculiar  strength  of  fancy 
to  see  a  Jacob's  ladder  crowded  with  ascending  blessings. 

Scornfully,  the  railroad  king  would  glance  at  these  small 
teams  in  each  small  field;  yet  check  those  corndroppers,  and 
his  cars  would  rot  on  the  road  and  rust  would  devour  the 
engines  in  the  roundhouse.  The  banker  would  ride  through 
those  fields  thinking  only  of  his  hoarded  millions,  nor  would  he 
ever  startle  himself  with  the  thought  that  his  millions  would 
melt  away  in  mist,  were  those  tiny  hands  never  more  to  be 
found  dropping  corn.  The  bondhokler,  proud  in  all  the  security 
of  the  untaxed  receiver  of  other  jicople's  taxes,  would  see  in 
these  fields  merely  the  industry  from  which  he  gathers  tribute; 
it  would  never  dawn  on  his  mind,  that,  without  the  opening  of 
those  furrows  and  the  hurrying  army  of  children  dropping  corn, 
his  bond  wouldn't  be  worth  the  paper  it  is  written  on. 

Great  is  the  might  of  this  republic! — great  in  its  schools, 
churches,  courts,  legislatures;  great  in  its  towns  and  cities;  great 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  9 

in  its  commerce,  great  in  its  manufactures,  great  in  its  colossal 
wealth. 

But  sweep  from  under  it  all  these  worn  and  wasted  fields, 
strike  into  idleness  or  death  the  plowman,  his  wife  and  his  child, 
and  what  becomes  of  the  gorgeous  structure  whose  foundation  is 
his  field? 

Halt  the  food  growers,  and  what  becomes  of  your  gold  and 
its  "intrinsic  value"? 

How  much  of  your  gold  can  you  eat? 

How  many  of  your  diamonds  will  answer  the  need  of  a  loaf? 

But  enough. 

It  is  time  to  ride  down  the  hill.  The  tinkle  of  the  cowbell 
follows  the  sinking  sun — both  on  the  way  home. 

So,  with  many  an  unspoken  thought,  I  ride  homeward,  think- 
ing of  those  who  plant  the  corn. 

And  hard  indeed  would  be  the  heart  that,  knowing  what 
these  people  do  and  bear  and  suffer,  yet  would  not  fashion  this 
prayer  to  the  favored  of  the  republic:  "0  rulers,  lawmakers, 
soldiers,  judges,  bankers,  merchants,  editors,  lawyers,  doctors, 
preachers,  bondholders!  Be  not  so  unmindful  of  the  toil  and 
misery  of  those  who  feed  you!" 


The  New  Year 


LEAD  us  gently,  Father  Time,  as  you  take  us  to  the  portals 
/of  the  New  Year. 

AVe  know  not  what  may  be  within;  and  our  souls  are  bur- 
dened with  fear,  as  we  stand  here  at  the  door. 

Lost,  forever  lost,  is  the  Confidence  with  which  we  used  to 
go  bounding  into  the  New  Year — as  revellers  hastening  to  the 
feast. 

We  have  met  the  Unforeseen  so  often,  have  mourned  where 
we  thought  to  have  rejoiced,  been  trampled  upon  amid  the 
horrors  of  panic  and  defeat,  where  we  had  so  stoutly  fought  for 
victory  and  reward,  that  our  hearts  are  sadly  subdued. 

We  did  not  seek  this  awful  life-woe.  Father  Time. 

Thrust,  from  some  great  outer  darkness  into  the  hurly-burly 
called  Life,  we  gaze  upward  at  the  stars,  in  helpless  ignorance 
of  what  it  all  may  mean;  and  some  irresistible  force  pushes  us, 
pushes,  us,  swiftly,  inexorably,  onward  to  another  outer  dark- 
ness that  fills  us  with  speechless  awe. 

Have  mercy  on  us.  Father  Time.  We  have  been  beaten  with 
many  stripes,  are  covered  with  many  wounds. 

God!    How  we  have  suffered! 

We  knew  nothing  at  the  beginning,  and  we  know  but  little 
now;  and  for  every  lesson  we  have  learned,  we  have  been  made 
to  pay  in  heart-aches  and  scalding  tears. 

Always  struggling,  often  down,  always  anxious  for  the  mor- 
row, often  in  torture  today,  we  have  stumbled  forward.  Father 
Time,  still  looking  for  the  smooth  road  and  the  sunny  sky,  and 
the  bright  companionship  of  success  and  peace. 

Shall  we  never  see  them.  Father  Time? 

We  shudder  when  we  think  what  vou  did  to  us  during  the 
Old  Year,  Father  Time. 

Ah,  but  you  were  hard  on  us — bitter  hard.  Our  little  ones 
panted  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  Father  Time:  and  they  died 
like  flies,  in  noisome,  reeking,  crowded  tenements,  because  there 
was  not,  in  all  God's  universe — where  there's  light  and  air  for 
every  flower  that  flecks  the  field — a  breath  of  fresh  air  for  the 
little  children  of  the  slums. 

Ah,  it  was  pitiful,  Father  Time! 

Our  feeble  ones,  young  and  old,  perished  miserably  of  cold 
and  hunger,  in  the  midst  of  a  land  that  worships  the  Good  God, 
and  amid  such  an  accumulation  of  wealth  as  was  never  known 

(10) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  11 

before  since  the  morning  stars  looked  down  upon  a  newly-made 

world.  . 

Poverty,  crime,  vice,  drunkenness,  not,  war,  lamme,  pesti- 
lence earthquake,  and  conflagration  have  glutted  their  awful 
appetites  upon  us  during  the  Old  Year,  Father  Time.  To  what 
are  you  leading  us  in  the  New? 

Will  the  heart  of  the  world  grow  harder  and  harder,  leather 

Time?  ,      .,,  ,  .„ 

Will  the  greed  of  human  avarice  demand  still  larger  sacrince 

of  human  lives? 

Will  the  selfishness  of  Classes  gorge  itself  still  further  upon 
ravenous  conquests,  and  remorseless  exploitation? 

Shall  the  cry  of  the  white  slave  never  reach  Heaven,  Father 

Time?  ,     .   ^     ,  m    ■  , 

Shall  the  song  of  the  angels  who  hung  over  the  infant  Christ, 
never  throb,  a  living  principle,  in  man's  government  of  man? 

Is  the  reformer  always  to  be  the  martyr,  Father  Time? 

Is  wrong  never  to  be  dethroned? 

Oh,  Father  Time!  We  tremble  as  we  feel  you  leading  us 
toward  the  door  of  the  New  Year.  Beyond  that  portal  we  cannot 
see,  and  we  dread  it — as  children  dread  the  dark. 

Deal  gentlv  with  us  in  the  New  Year,  Father  Time. 

Give  us  strength  to  bear  the  cross— for  we  know  that  we 
must  OGcir  it 

Give  us  courage  for  the  battle,  for  we  know  that  we  must 

figlit  it.  I    11        J  •+ 

Give  us  patience  to  endure,  for  we  know  that  we  shall  need  it. 

Give  us  charity  that  thinks  no  evil,  and  which  will  stretch 
forth  the  helpful  hand  to  lift  our  weaker  brother  out  of  the  mire, 
rather  than  the  cruel  scorn  which  passes  him  by,  or  thrusts  him 
further  down. 

Give  us  faith  in  the  right  which  no  defeat  can  disturb,  and 
no  discouragement  undermine. 

Give  us  the  love  of  truth  which  no  temptation  can  seduce, 
and  no  menace  can  intimidate. 

Give  us  the  fortitude  which,  through  the  cloud  and  the  gloom 
and  the  sorrow  of  apparent  failure,  can  see  the  distant  pinnacles 
upon  which  the  everlasting  sunlight  rests. 

Give  us  the  pride  which  suffers  no  contamination,  no_  com- 
promise of  self-respect,  no  wilful  desertion  of  honest  conviction. 

Give  us  the  purpose  that  never  turns,  and  the  hope  that 
never  dies.  And,  Father  Time,  should  the  New  Year,  into 
which  you  are  taking  us,  have  upon  its  calendar  that  day  in 
which  the  few  that  love  us  shall  be  bowed  down  in  sackcloth  and 
aslies,  let  that  day,  like  all  other  days,  find  us  on  duty— faithful 
to  the  end. 


LEAD   US   GENTLY,   FATHER   TIME 


12) 


A  Forgotten  Scholar 

TJ"  AVE  you  ever  heard  of  Hugh  Swinton  Legare? 

His  father  was  one  of  those  Huguenots  who  left  France 
because  of  religious  intolerance,  and  came  to  America  because  of 
its  promise  of  freedom. 

His  mother  belonged  to  tlie  Scotch  family  of  Swinton,  whose 
warriors  defended  the  border,  and  whose  names  are  honored 
in  the  chronicles  of  Froissart  and  Walter  Scott. 

Hugh  Swinton  Legare  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina, 
January  2,  1797.  A  large,  well-formed  child,  he  grew  to  be 
almost  a  deformed  man,  on  account  of  having  been  vaccinated 
for  smallpox.  Fearing  that  the  disease  might  attack  the  boy, 
his  fond  parents  delivered  him  to  a  doctor,  who  gave  him  such  a 
bad  case  of  artificial  smallpox  that  he  never  got  over  it.  For 
months  he  was  kept  flat  on  his  back,  his  knee  joints  and  elbow 
joints  terribly  inflamed.  For  eight  years  his  growth  was  arrested, 
and  when  he  did  begin  to  grow  to  manhood,  the  growth  was 
mostly  above  the  waist  line. 

Therefore,  Hugh  Swinton  Legare  had  the  head,  shoulders  and 
chest  of  a  finely  shaped  man,  while  his  lower  limbs  were  so 
short  in  comparison  that  there  was  no  beauty  of  proportion. 

Seated,  he  seemed  a  magnificent  speciman  of  manhood; 
standing,  he  had  none  of  the  impressiveness  of  stature  which 
adds  so  much  to  the  "imposing  presence." 

As  a  boy,  his  infirmity  made  him  unfit  for  rough  games  and 
exercises.    Naturally,  he  took  to  solitude  and  books. 

His  father  died  while  Hugh  was  very  young,  and  to  his  mother 
was  left  his  training  and  education. 

Mary  Swinton  Legare  was  one  of  the  noblest  women  of  the 
Old  South — and  when  that  is  said  no  more  can  be  said.  To 
make  of  her  bright  boy  a  useful  man,  became  the  purpose  of  her 
life;  and  to  her  pure  teachings,  her  firm  control,  her  wise 
guidance,  Hugh  Legare  was  indebted  for  the  splendid  honesty  of 
character,  the  unselfish  devotion  to  high  ideals,  that  makes  a 
study  of  his  modest  career  so  beneficial. 

After  some  preliminary  schooling,  which  included  a  course  at 
the  celebrated  Academy  of  Dr.  Moses  Wacldell,  Hugh  Legare 
spent  four  years  in  Columbia  College  and  graduated  with  the 
highest  honors.     (December,  1814.) 

The  next  three  years,  young  Legare  devoted  to  a  study  of 
the  law;  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  he  could  have  com- 
menced  the   practice   of   his   profession,    better   equipped   than 

(13) 


14  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

Benjamin  Butler,  Daniel  Webster,  William  H.  Crawford,  Henry 
Clay,  or  George  McDuffie. 

But  young  Legare  had  a  scholar's  lust  for  knowledge,  and  he 
went  to  Europe  to  complete  his  education. 

In  his  beautiful  letters  to  his  mother,  he  tells  of  his  studies 
in  Edinburgh,  Scotland;  then  of  his  travels  and  studies  on  the 
Continent. 

After  two  years  abroad  he  returned  to  Charleston,  and  two 
more  years  were  spent  in  the  study  of  law.  And  then  he  was 
admitted  to  the  Bar. 

Now,  let  those  young  men  of  the  present  day  who  bemoan 
the  fact  that  they  have  no  college  education,  study  the  fate  of 
Hugh  S.  Legare 

Fortune  gave  him  ample  means  to  attend  schools,  ransack 
libraries,  pursue  knowledge,  exhaust  the  sources  of  information, 
both  at  home  and  abroad.  Nature  gave  him  as'  fine  an  intellect 
as  ever  warmed  the  heart  and  whetted  the  zeal  of  a  teacher. 
He  could  learn  and  he  could  remember.  He  could  think,  as  well 
as  learn.  He  was  an  effective  speaker  and  a  magnificent  writer. 
In  a  classical  controversy  he  could,  and  did,  make  a  monkey  out 
of  the  famous  Englishman,  Lord  Brougham.  His  essay  on 
Demosthenes  is  one  of  the  finest  things  in  the  English  language, 
and  Rufus  Choate  is  said  to  have  never  tired  of  reading  it. 

His  paper  on  the  ''Democracy  of  Athens"  has  never  been  sur- 
passed in  solid,  sterling  value,  by  Macaulay,  Carlyle,  or  anybody 
else. 

His  argument  against  Nullification  is  sounder  than  Webster's, 
for  it  is  not  built  upon  a  false  foundation,  as  Webster's  was. 

In  short,  Hugh  Swinton  Legare  was,  perhaps,  as  able  a  man, 
naturally,  as  Clay,  Webster,  Calhoun,  Benton,  or  Crawford;  and, 
as  a  scholar,  he  infinitely  surpassed  them  all.  He  had  read  more 
books,  garnered  more  knowledge,  learned  more  languages,  spent 
more  time  in  preparation  than  any  of  them. 

Academically,  he  was  easily  the  master  of  the  whole  group — 
Clay,  Webster,  Calhoun,  Benton,  Crawford.  That  is  to  say,  in 
book  learning  he  excelled  them  all.  He  probably  knew  more 
than  all  three  of  "the  Great  Trio,"  with  Benton  and  Crawford 
thrown  in  for  good  measure. 

Why  is  it,  then,  that  Hugh  S.  Legare  never  succeeded  in  pro- 
portion to  his  natural  ability  and  his  mental  culture?  Why  is 
it  that  nearly  every  schoolboy  knows  something  of  Clay,  Web- 
ster and  Callioun,  while  not  one  boy  in  ten  thousand  will  ever 
hear  of  Hugh  Legare?  Why  is  it  that  the  speeches  and  writings 
of  Clay,  Webster  and  Calhoun  are  to  be  found  in  all  the  book 
catalogues,  while  the  writings  and  speeches  of  Legare  are  the 
"rare  specimens"  of  a  few  libraries? 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  15 

It  is  a  curious  conundrum,  antl  illustrates  what  I  have  long 
been  saying  to  the  young  men — ^namely,  that  a  collegiate  educa- 
tion is  not  absolutely  necessary  to  the  success  of  a  practical 
lawyer. 

Abraham  Lincoln  had  almost  no  sort  of  an  education,  yet  see 
what  a  success  he  was  as  a  lawyer. 

Ben  Butler  had  only  a  smattering  of  collegiate  education,  yet 
he  put  Rufus  Choate  to  rout,  the  very  first  time  they  clashed. 

George  McDuffie  had  no  education  to  compare  with  Legare's, 
vet  Legare  had  no  practical  success  to  compare  with  that  of 
McDuffie. 

Think  of  these  things,  young  man,  and  don't  be  down-hearted 
because  you  are  too  poor  "to  go  lo  college." 

Lots  of  men  who  were  never  great,  "went  to  college;"  lots 
of  men  who  were  great,  didn't. 

So,  you  see,  it's  a  question  of  what  is  in  you. 

If  you  haven't  got  within  you  the  stuff  out  of  which  success- 
ful men  are  made,  no  teacher,  no  book,  no  college  will  ever  put 
it  there. 

If  you  have  got  the  right  sort  of  stuff  in  you,  and  will  dash 
ahead,  determined  to  succeed,  as  Clay,  Jackson  and  Lincoln  did, 
you  will  succeed,  just  as  they  did. 

Andrew  Jackson  got  a  college  degree — got  it  in  New  Eng- 
land at  that — but  it  was  after  he  had  become  a  success  as  a 
lawyer,  a  merchant,  a  farmer,  a  soldier  and  a  politician.  He 
did  not  get  that  college  degree  until  he  was  President  of  the 
United  States.  The  school  advertised  itself  a  little  by  giving 
the  great  Tennessean  a  degree  which  he  couldn't  read — for  it 
was  in  Latin.  Old  Hickory  laughed  as  they  mumbled  over  the 
words  of  the  degree,  and  remarked  that  the  only  Latin  he  knew 
was,  E  Pluribus  Unum. 

What  was  the  matter  with  Hugh  Swinton  Legare?  Why 
did  not  his  success  measure  up  to  the  scale  of  his  preparations? 
Because  his  perfect  culture  had  put  him  out  of  touch  with  the 
men  among  whom  he  moved.  His  eminence  was  an  isolation. 
Placed  above  the  average  of  his  community  by  his  elaborate 
education,  he  was  not  in  sympathy  with  the  average  man,  and 
the  average  man  was  not  in  sympathy  with  him. 

But  it  is  the  average  man  who  gives  verdicts  and  votes;  it 
is  the  average  man  whose  shouts  of  applause  make  the  temporary 
fame  which  rules  the  court-room  and  the  hustings.  To  be  so 
highly  educated  as  to  lose  touch  with  the  average  man,  is  to  be 
over-educated.  Mr.  Legare  himself  sadly  admitted  that  he 
had  wasted  too  much  time  in  i^reparation.  He  had  mingled  so 
long  with  scholars  and   book-worms,  had   lingered  so   lovingly 


16  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

in  academies  and  libraries  that  he  was  not  fitted  for  the  com- 
panionship of  the  average  man,  or  the  hurly-burly  of  the  busy 
world. 

It  became  his  regret  that  he  had  not  thrown  himself  earlier 
into  the  struggle  of  life,  and  learned  the  ways  of  men  by  prac- 
tical experience. 

As  suggested  by  his  biographer,  he  had  become  too  superior 
to  the  commonplace  man  to  exert  any  influence  over  that  com- 
monplace man.  He  was  so  uncommon  in  his  perfect  culture  that 
he  could  not  get  the  benefit  of  his  actual  talent  among  common 
men. 

Like  a  man  who  would  put  all  his  money  in  big  bills,  he 
could  not  get  about  the  world  as  well  as  the  man  wiio  carries 
small  change. 

After  he  had  been  a  lawyer  some  years — years  in  which  Mc- 
Duffie,  Petigru  and  other  less  learned  lawyers  were  earning  big 
fees — Legare  was  asked  by  a  friend  how  he  was  getting  along. 

"Sir,"  answered  he,  "do  you  ask  how  I  get  along?  I  will 
tell  you.  I  have  a  variety  of  cases,  and,  by  the  bounty  of  Provi- 
dence, sometimes  get  a  fee;  but  in  general,  Sir,  I  practice  upon 
the  old  Roman  plan;  and,  like  Cicero's,  my  clients  pay  me  what 
they  like — that  is,  often  nothing  at  all." 

He  served  two  or  three  terms  as  a  member  of  the  Legisla- 
ture, and  his  reputation  as  a  man  of  great  powers  and  attain- 
ments spread  among  those  who  could  best  appreciate  him. 

After  awhile  he  was  appointed  Attorney-General  for  the 
State  of  South  Carolina.  Duty  calling  him  to  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States,  he  made  an  argument  before  that 
tribunal  which  showed  what  he  really  was,  and  which  fixed 
his  status  as  one  of  the  great  lawyers  of  his  time. 

He  soon  afterward  accepted  an  appointment  in  the  diplomatic 
service,  and  i-epresented  his  Government  as  Charge  d'Affairs  at 
Brussels.  Here  he  must  have  enjoyed  himself  thoroughly,  for 
he  moved  in  the  best  society,  was  treated  with  the  utmost  con- 
sideration, and  had  the  companionship  of  scholars,  the  living 
and  the  dead. 

Returning  to  Charleston  (1836),  he  was  elected  to  Congress, 
where  he  at  once  made  a  brilliant  record  in  debate;  but  he  was 
thrown  out  at  the  next  election  by  a  hostile  local  combination. 

Resuming  the  practice  of  law,  he  was  now  employed  in  some 
really  good  cases  and,  I  hope,  got  some  good  fees.    It  was  time. 

He  took  a  prominent  j^art  in  the  Presidential  campaign  of 
1840,  making  speeches  in  Richmond  and  New  York,  which  were 
considered  magnificent. 

Next  year  the  original  Harrison  Cabinet  resigned,  and  Mr. 
Legare  was  appointed  Attorney-General  of  the  United  States. 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  17 

Nobody  questioned  his  fitness  for  this  high  place,  and  his 
conduct  of  the  business  of  the  office  was  a  success.  When  Mr. 
Webster  retired  from  the  State  Department,  President  Tyler 
confided  to  Mr.  Legare,  ad  interim,  the  care  of  that  department. 

Thus  Mr.  Legare  was  doing  double  duty,  and  his  strength 
failed  under  it. 

His  sister,  Mrs.  Bryan,  to  whom  he  was  tenderly  attached, 
died  in  July,  1842. 

The  January  following  he  lost  his  mother,  whom  he  had 
loved  to  the  last  with  boyish  devotion,  the  mother  to  whom  he 
wrote  from  Europe,  in  1819: 

"The  whole  happiness  of  my  life  is  henceforth  to  make  you 
happy." 

A  noble  pledge!  and  nobly  kept. 

In  1843  he  went  with  the  President  to  Boston  to  take  part 
in  the  Bunker  Hill  celebration.  Seized  by  a  sudden  and  violent 
illness  (June  16),  he  was  unable  to  attend  the  ceremonies,  and 
died  on  the  morning  of  June  20. 

He  had  never  married. 

Taken  altogether,  here  was,  to  me,  one  of  the  saddest  of 
records. 

Who  could  have  begun  the  race  of  life  with  better  chances 
to  win  it  than  Hugh  Legare? 

By  birth  he  belonged  to  the  slave-holding  aristocracy,  the 
alleged  ruling  class  of  his  State.  He  had  the  benefit  of  the  best 
education  that  money  could  buy.  He  literally  ransacked  the 
world  in  his  quest  of  knowledge. 

He  had  a  mind  of  high  order  to  start  with,  and  his  industry 
in  improving  it  has  seldom  been  surpassed. 

His  character  was  without  a  blemish ;  his  disposition  amiable ; 
his  manners  those  of  the  accomplished  gentleman.  He  neither 
drank  and  gambled,  like  Henry  Clay,  nor  did  he  play  cards 
and  get  drunk,  like  Daniel  Webster.  He  had  no  quarrels  and 
duels,  as  McDuffie  had;  raised  no  rows  at  horse  races  and  other 
places,  as  Andrew  Jackson  did;  shot  down  no  enemies  in  street 
fights,  as  Thomas  H.  Benton  did;  beat  no  Congressman  with  a 
stick,  as  Sam  Houston  did;  had  no  feud  with  a  neighbor  about 
that  neighbor's  pretty  wife,  as  Jefferson  had;  and  published  no 
Mrs.  Reynolds  Confession,  as  Hamilton  thought  it  necessary 
to  do. 

No!  Hugh  S.  Legare  was  a  "Mother's  boy" — a  model  of 
good  conduct  and  of  good  character;  a  model  student,  a  good 
citizen,  elaborately  equipped  to  be  a  model  lawyer,  a  model 
orator,  and  a  model  statesman. 

Yet  he  failed. 

He  failed  all  along  the  line.     He  tried  to  run  a  magazine, 


18  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

The  Southern  Review,  but  his  articles  went  over  the  heads  of 
the  people,  and  the  magazine  died  of  too  much  learning. 

He  tried  politics,  and  "practical  fellows"  tripped  him  and 
passed  on  ahead. 

He  tried  to  be  a  lawyer,  and,  so  far  as  knowing  the  law 
was  concerned,  Webster  was  not  his  equal,  nor  Pinckney  his 
superior,  but  Webster  and  Pinckney  had  a  success  at  the  bar 
which  painfully  dwarfs  the  career  of  Legare.  He  made  fine 
speeches,  but  couldn't  keep  in  the  swim.  A  favorite  among 
scholars,  the  common  people  loved  him  not.  He  did  not  under- 
stand them,  nor  they  him.  The  mystic  tie  of  sympathy  was  not 
there. 

"I  started  too  late;  I  lingered  over  books  too  long;  I  should 
have  plunged  into  the  fight  earlier,  trusted  more  to  my  natural 
capacity  and  less  to  education.     /  am  over-educated." 

Was  there  ever  a  mournfuller  wail  than  this? 

He  took  no  sweet  woman  to  wife;  children  came  not  to  sit 
upon  his  knee.  Books — and  his  sisters;  books — and  his  mother; 
books — and  some  forgotten  speeches;  books — and  a  few  mas- 
terful but  neglected  essays;  books — and  a  few  second-rate  ap- 
pointments to  office;  books — and  a  sudden  breakdown  and  death. 

It  is  almost  appalling;  so  much  study  and  so  little  result; 
so  much  labor  and  so  little  done.  Such  royal  liberality  in  seed- 
sowing,  and  such  a  beggarly  harvest. 

Had  the  handsome,  brilliant,  sweet-tempered,  golden-hearted 
Hugh  Legare  buckled  right  down  to  practical  affairs,  as  soon 
as  he  left  college,  getting  used  to  the  ways  of  folks,  wearing 
off  the  wire  edge  and  getting  on  working  terms  with  the  aver- 
age man,  gaining  by  actual  experience  that  knowledge  of  men 
and  things  which  cannot  be  got  in  any  other  way;  had  he  got 
down  off  the  higii  horse  and  mixed  and  mingled  with  the  boys; 
had  he  studied  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry,  and  caught  the  cue;  had 
he  looked  upon  the  marvelous  leaves  in  the  great  book  of  Hu- 
man Nature  and  read  what  is  written  there;  had  he  made  him- 
self a  man  among  men,  caught  the  glow  of  their  passions,  felt 
the  warmth  of  their  sympathies,  swam  in  the  current  of  their 
energies  and  their  practical  purposes,  he  would  have  known  bet- 
ter how  to  talk  to  them,  how  to  get  votes  and  verdicts  from  them, 
how  to  mold  their  convictions  and  lead  their  advance. 

Had  he  got  down  upon  the  ground  floor  with  the  ])eoplc,  as 
all  Americans  who  have  achieved  great  practical  success,  as 
lawyers,  authors,  orators  and  jiolitical  leaders  have  had  to  do, 
lie  might  have  been  as  ])owerful  with  the  pen  as  Horace  Greeley; 
on  the  hustings,  he  might  have  equalled  Clay;  in  the  court-room, 
Webster  would  have  met  him  with  the  stern  joy  which  warriors 
feel  in  foemen  worthy  of  their  steel. 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  19 

As  it  is,  he  is  but  a  memory  in  the  minds  of  a  few. 

He  went  forth  into  the  fields  of  toil,  and  came  back  with 
empty  arms. 

He  spoke,  and  nobody  heard. 

He  wrote,  and  nobody  read. 

Upon  the  sands  of  time  he  left  no  trace. 

The  brilliant  morning  of  his  life  led  to  no  midday  splendor, 
no  gorgeous  afternoon,  no  immortal  afterglow. 

Only  the  curious  student,  exploring  obscure  corners  of  the 
library',  and  poring  over  "quaint  and  curious  volumes  of  for- 
gotten lore,"  will  ever  learn  the  strangely  melancholy  story  of 
the  forgotten  scholar,  Hugh  Swinton  Legare. 


A  Tragedy  in  a  Tree  Top 

npHE  blizzard  of  1895,  which  froze  the  tea-olive,  the  banana 
shrub  and  the  japonica,  came  near  killing  the  live-oaks  which 
had  grown  from  the  acorns  I  brought  home  from  South  Georgia 
when  I  was  a  young  lawyer. 

She  planted  them  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  chicken  house, 
and  when  the  tree  grew  large  enough  to  demand  more  space, 
I  pulled  down  the  house.  Yes,  the  inner  bark  of  the  live  oaks 
turned  dark  that  winter,  and  it  took  copious  waterings  next 
spring  to  carry  them  through  the  summer. 

But  in  April,  1896,  when  I  came  to  note  the  many  gaps 
which  the  frost  had  made  in  the  shrubbery,  I  missed  something 
else. 

No  blue-birds  came  singing  in  the  apple  trees. 

The  cold  had  been  too  much  for  them.  The  hollows  where 
they  had  made  their  winter  homes  had  been  their  sepulchers, 
and  the  April  sun  carried  no  warmth  to  the  pitiful  little  forms 
in  blue,  rigid  and  decayed. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  1898  that  I  was  riding  along  through 
the  country,  some  ten  miles  out  from  town,  when  with  a  thrill 
of  joy  I  heard  the  old  familiar  notes  of  the  blue-bird. 

Sure  enough,  here  were  half  a  dozen  of  the  tribe,  chirping 
musically  in  the  sunlight. 

After  that  they  gradually  became  more  common,  and  in 
1902  they  were  once  more  flitting  about  the  orchard  and  the 
cornfield. 

Two  years  ago  I  watched  a  pair  closely,  and  found  the  nest. 

Creeping  up  to  the  old  apple  tree,  I  peeped  down  into  the 
hollow,  and  there,  cuddled  at  the  bottom,  were  four  well-feath- 
ered youngsters  that  would  soon  be  ready  to  fly. 

In  a  few  days  the  entire  family  of  six,  the  parents  and  the 
four  children,  were  out  in  the  cornfield,  all  singing  together, 
flocking  together,  as  companionable  as  folks,  and  giving  every 
evidence  of  complete  enjoyment  of  life. 

Thus  the  blue-birds  made  a  home  with  us  and  multiplied. 
But  the  next  winter  was  very  severe.  Twice  the  sleet  drove 
down  from  the  North  and  chained  the  South.  Every  tree  wore 
its  armor  of  ice,  and  when  the  hoarse  wind  blew,  even  the  giant 
oaks  and  hickories  and  pines  shivered  and  bent,  while  great 
'limbs  were  snapped  and  hurled  to  the  ground. 

It  was  bitter  hard  upon  the  birds. 

(20) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  21 

So,  then,  when  the  warm  days  of  spring  came  on.  She  and 
I  thought  we  would  do  something  especially  good  for  our  feath- 
ered friends,  and  we  put  up  the  boxes  in  the  trees,  boxes  in 
which  they  could  nest.  In  this  way  the  cold  rains  and  chill 
winds  would  not  endanger  the  yoimg  birds.  Up  went  the  boxes, 
and  the  birds  came. 

But  only  two  blue-birds — just  one  pair. 

All  the  others  had  perished  of  cold.  Great  was  our  delight 
when  we  made  certain  that  this  pair  had  begun  to  build  a  nest 
in  one  of  our  boxes. 

I  happened  to  see  them  first,  and  told  the  good  news. 

"Oh,  is7i't  that  fine!"  cried  She,  clapping  her  hands,  her  eyes 
a-dance  with  joy. 

"But  we  must  not  let  them  catch  us  watching  them,"  said 
She,  "because  that  might  make  them  leave  the  nest." 

So  we  were  over-cautious,  and  I  kept  away  from  the  tree 
lest  I  should  alarm  the  busy  home-makers. 

From  week  to  week  I  merely  made  sure  that  the  birds  were 
still  at  work  in  the  box — and  that  made  us  content.  One  day 
in  April  one  of  these  blue-birds  sang  with  a  volume  which  at- 
tracted my  attention.  I  had  never  known  one  to  repeat  its  simple 
little  notes  so  continuously  and  so  loudly. 

Usually  a  blue-bird  is  subdued;  this  one  was  almost  bois- 
terous. 

Something  or  other — I  don't  know  what — made  me  uncom- 
fortable. I  got  the  vague  impression  that  the  bird  was  in  dis- 
tress. Yet  there  was  nothing  disturbing  it.  Had  it  flown  back 
and  forth  from  the  box,  or  had  it  hovered  about  that  tree,  I  should 
have  suspected  the  horrible  truth. 

But  the  bird  was  quite  a  distance  from  the  box,  and  I  could 
not  dream  that  such  a  tragedy  had  happened  as  I  now  know 
had  happened. 

My  usual  monthly  trip  to  New  York  occupied  ten  days,  and 
on  my  return  I  looked  for  the  young  blue-birds. 

They  were  not  to  be  seen. 

I  made  inquiries,  but  none  on  the  place  had  seen  any. 

That  evening  at  dusk  I  saw  one  of  the  birds  alight  on  the 
shelf  of  the  box  and  look  in  upon  the  nest. 

All  is  well,  I  thought.  But  next  day  I  became  uneasy.  It 
was  time  the  young  birds  were  out. 

What  had  happened? 

The  fear  of  doing  harm  to  the  little  family  held  me  back 
until  nearly  nightfall,  and  then  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  I 
must  see  what  was  the  matter. 

"Bring  me  the  step  ladder,  Steve." 


22  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

It  was  a  rickety  old  thing,  and  Steve  had  to  grip  it  at  the 
bottom  while  I  went  up. 

Reaching  the  level  of  the  nest  I  peered  in,  but  the  limbs  of 
the  tree  shut  out  the  light,  and  I  could  see  nothing. 

"Run  and  bring  me  some  matches,  Steve." 

He  brought  them,  and  when  I  struck  one  of  them  and  looked 
in,  there  was  something  that  looked  like  fish-scales. 

Puzzled  and  alarmed,  I  struck  another  match,  and  looked 
more  closely. 

There  was  no  sound  from  within  the  box  and  no  sign  of 
life. 

What  pathetic  mystery  was  this? 

"Steve,  this  looks  like  the  skin  of  a  snake!" 

"Law,  Boss!  Come  down  from  dere  and  let's  wait  till 
mornin'." 

While  Steve  was  working  up  an  excitement  from  below,  I 
lit  another  match,  poked  about  in  the  box,  and  became  convinced 
that  no  life  of  any  sort  was  there. 

Whatever  had  been  done,  was  finished. 

We  wrenched  the  box  from  its  fastenings  in  the  tree,  and 
took  it  out  into  the  open  where  the  light  was  better. 

When  the  roof  had  been  knocked  off,  I  pulled  out  the  con- 
tents of  the  box  and  spread  them  on  the  ground. 

The  birds  had  made  an  unusually  large  nest.  They  had 
evidently  fallen  in  love  with  their  house.  They  had  intended 
to  make  it  their  permanent  home. 

In  the  nest  were  four  eggs,  looking  old  and  dry  and  discolored. 

And  there  was  the  cast-off  skin  of  a  snake! 

It  lay  along  that  empty  nest,  that  blighted  home — ghastly 
memorial  of  the  tragedy  in  the  tree. 

What  had  occurred? 

The  snake,  probably  a  black  tree-climber,  had  found  his  way 
into  the  nest,  and  swallowed  the  mother  bird,  and  then  gone 
into  quarters  there  until  it  had  cast  off  its  skin.  It  had  appro- 
priated the  property  after  having  devoured  the  owner. 

But  why  had  the  eggs  been  left? 

I  cannot  guess,  unless  it  be  that  they  were  stale,  and  that 
even  a  snake  dislikes  stale  eggs. 

The  supper  bell  rang,  and  I  went  into  the  house. 

As  I  took  my  seat  at  the  table,  I  said  heavily: 

"The  poor  little  birds!" 

Then  She  knew  that  there  had  been  a  tragedy. 

She  heard  the  story,  and  neitlier  of  us  wanted  any  supper. 
It  went  below,  untasted. 

The  big  yellow  moon  came  soaring  over  the  woods,  and 
Hickorv  Hill  was  soon  in  a  blaze  of  silvery  light. 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  23 

But  the  mocking-bird  that  was  singing  so  sweetly  down  in 
the  meadow  seemed  ahnost  a  nuisance,  for  I  couhln't  get  my 
thoughts  off  the  snake  and  the  missing  bird. 

Ah,  if  you  could  see  the  widower — the  surviving  bird!  It 
would  touch  your  heart.  He  will  not  return  to  the  tree  any 
more.    He  goes  further  from  the  house  every  day. 

I  know  now  that  when  I  saw  him  on  the  shelf  looking  in 
upon  his  ruined  home,  he  was  paying  his  last  visit. 

I  know  now  that  when  he  was  singing  so  stridently  that 
day  in  April,  the  serpent  was  already  in  his  home  and  he  with- 
out a  mate. 

The  last  I  saw  of  him  was  early  yesterday  morning.  The 
sun  was  glorious;  birds  of  every  sort  were  bringing  off  their 
young,  and  the  air  thrilled  with  their  songs. 

And  the  blue-bird  sang  also,  but  mournfully — and  he  had 
already  left  my  place.  He  was  perched  at  the  top  of  a  tall 
tree  in  the  adjoining  field. 

He  sang  and  sang  and  sang — calling  for  his  mate,  perhaps 
— and  then  a  bee-martin  struck  savagely  at  the  homeless,  mate- 
less  blue-bird,  and,  with  a  melancholy  chirp,  he  disappeared  in 
the  remote  woods. 


In  the  Mountains 

(~\^  this  gray  pinnacle  of  rock,  I  sit  enthroned;  the  clouds 
^^  hang  their  curtains  far  below,  for  this  is  "Mountain  Top," 
in  the  Blue  Ridge. 

Down  the  valley,  to  the  east,  towers  Jefferson's  last  great 
work,  the  University  of  Virginia;  on  the  right,  the  blue  haze 
makes  dim  the  outline  of  the  giant  peaks,  which  stand  guard 
over  the  glories  of  the  Rock-fish  Valley;  far  away  to  the  west, 
stretches  the  Valley  of  Virginia,  with  the  North  Mountains  losing 
themselves  in  the  skies;  and  over  yonder  to  the  northeast,  are 
the  eternal  hills  which  saw  Stonewall  Jackson's  march  to  fame. 

Is  there  in  the  whole  world  a  lovelier  view  than  this?  Does 
Nature  anywhere  gather  together  so  many  of  her  treasures  within 
the  range  of  human  eye? 

Here  is  the  ever  changing  play  of  light  and  shade  as  the 
clouds  rest  or  move,  anchor  or  sail,  collect  or  scatter,  smile  or 
frown,  fleck  the  heavens  with  gold  or  strew  the  beach  of  the 
horizon  with  broken  waves  of  foam.  Here  is  the  limitless  wealth 
of  field  and  forest — fields  forever  green,  and  forests  whose  in- 
finite variety  defies  the  winter  to  strip  them  bare  and  the  sum- 
mer to  find  them  stale. 

Here  are  the  crystal  waters,  bursting  from  the  blue  slate 
rock  and  dashing  with  reckless  speed  down  a  thousand  hidden 
waterfalls  to  the  rivers  which  pierce  the  plains.  A  nobleman's 
park,  after  a  century  of  care  and  cost,  is  not  more  grateful  to 
the  eye  than  these  wonderful  slopes  and  natural  swards  cropped 
close  by  the  flocks,  trodden  smooth  by  the  herds.  And  if  you 
will  pluck  one  of  each  of  all  the  flowers  and  ferns  which  Nature's 
garden  tenders  you  here,  the  nobleman  will  envy  j-ou  the  rich- 
ness and  the  fragrance  of  the  field. 

This  rock  is  my  throne,  and  as  I  gaze  upon  the  soul-lifting 
sublimity  of  the  landscape,  I  feel  like  crying  out,  as  Goldsmith 
did  when  he  looked  down  from  the  Alps,  "The  world,  the  world 
is  mine!" 

This  farm  may  belong  to  Jones,  that  forest  to  Brown,  this 
mountain  to  Smith,  that  orchard  to  Tompkins,  but  the  land- 
scape is  mine,  is  yours,  is  anybody's! 

He  that  has  eyes  to  see,  let  him  see. 

Down  yonder  in  front  of  me,  looking  east,  is  the  Rock-fish 
Gap!  It  was  the  first  passway  for  pioneers  crossing  the  Blue 
Ridge  to  reach  the  Allegheny  Mountains.    For  years,  this  was 

(24) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  25 

the  road  the  emigrant  took  going  west.  See  how  deeply  worn 
into  the  rocky  earth  is  this  ancient  highway,  even  on  the  very 
summit  of  the  Gap. 

Are  you  much  of  a  dreamer?  Here  is  the  pLace  to  dream 
dreams  and  see  visions. 

Fill  that  time-worn  road  with  the  pioneers  who  made  it; 
call  back  the  adventurers  who  once  thronged  it,  and  you  will 
see  the  banners  of  civilization  flying  over  the  dauntless  men  in 
buckskin  who  pass  upward  and  outward  and  onward,  from  the 
valleys  of  the  lower  South  to  found  empires  in  the  West.  Peo- 
ple the  Gap  with  those  whose  rifle  and  axe  afterwards  made  the 
"winning  of  the  West,"  and  you  will  see  the  militant  cohorts 
of  the  white  man's  ambition  and  daring  and  ideals  go  marching 
by!  Deep,  deep  is  the  hard  soil,  worn  by  their  tireless  feet;  and 
if  the  Old  Road  of  Ohain  marks  one  epoch  of  English  heroism, 
it  is  as  nothing  in  lasting  importance,  world-wide  significance, 
to  the  Old  Road  on  Mountain  Top,  trenched  out  by  the  west- 
ward foot-beat  of  those  who  aspired  and  ventured  and  endured 
—striving  to  make  this  Nation  the  greatest  on  earth- 
Out  of  Albemarle  and  up  through  this  Gap,  passed  George 
Rogers  Clark  on  his  marvelous  march  to  the  Wabash — a  march 
whose  surpassing  heroism  added  four  States  to  the  Union  and 
to  civilization. 

Through  this  Gap,  and  likewise  from  Albemarle,  came  Lewis 
and  Clark  on  their  way  to  plant  our  flag  upon  the  Rockies,  the 
Columbia,  and  the  Pacific. 

Greatest  of  all  who  toiled  up  the  mountain,  passed  the  Gap 
and  stopped  at  the  old  Tavern,  was  Jefferson.  From  Albemarle 
he  had  gone  to  write  the  first  real  defiance  to  King  George;  to 
break  down  feudalism  in  Virginia  and  foreign  tyranny  in  the 
Confederation;  to  write  the  statute  of  religious  toleration,  and 
the  Declaration  of  Independence,  to  send  forth  Lewis  and  Clark 
to  the  unexplored  West,  and  to  add  a  dozen  great  States  to  the 
Union,  in  the  Louisiana  purchase. 

In  his  old  age,  in  his  decrepitude,  he  painfully  made  his 
way  from  Albemarle  to  this  ruined  Tavern  on  Mountain  Top, 
and  met  in  conference  Madison,  Monroe  and  others  of  the  elcl- 
ers  in  Israel,  his  purpose  being  to  convince  them  that  his  Uni- 
versity—the Benjamin  of  his  old  age— should  be  located  at 
Albemarle. 

It  was  so  decided  at  the  conference;  and  when  you  go  to 
Monticello  they  will  show  you  the  spot  where  the  feeble  Jef- 
ferson, too  weak  to  ride  any  more,  used  to  sit,  glass  in  hand, 
and  watch  the  building  of  the  walls  of  his  great  school. 

Yes,  indeed  you  can  dream  dreams  at  Mountain  Top,  and 
see  visions. 

Washington,  stately  and  grave,  goes  by  to  the  Indian  wars; 


26  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

the  chiefs  who  used  to  stop  at  Peter  Jefferson's  for  advice,  and 
to  whose  pathetic  pleas  for  justice  young  Thomas  used  to  listen, 
passed  along  this  trail  to  Albemarle;  then  the  day  came  when 
the  last  Indian  warrior  stood  there,  to  gaze  in  despair  over  the 
land  he  had  lost,  as  the  Moorish  king  looked  back  upon  lost 
Granada. 

Down  yonder,  on  the  green  slope,  by  the  scraggy  trees  and 
the  group  of  springs,  lie  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  Tavern,  and 
among  them  you  will  mark  a  large  pile  of  bricks.  Sort  these 
out  curiously,  and  you  will  find  a  few  which  have  upon  them 
the  hoof-prints  of  the  dogs  which  were  chasing  the  deer. 

It  was  in  the  olden  time.  The  bricks,  in  the  mud  state,  were 
lying  spread  out  in  the  "yard,"  the  chase  went  tearing  by,  the 
terror-maddened  stag  left  his  tracks  on  the  bricks,  and  the 
hounds  left  theirs,  also. 

Here  they  are,  curious  mementos;  and  anothc  Keats — 
gazing  upon  those  footprints  of  the  deer,  which  is  now  a  shade; 
the  pack  which  chased  it,  also  a  shade;  and  the  hunter  who 
followed  the  pack,  likewise  a  shade — all  gone,  save  this  tablet, 
which  tells  of  the  lust  of  pursuit  and  the  agony  of  flight — could 
even  match  the  almost  matchless  "Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn." 

Here,  on  the  ridge  commanding  the  mouth  of  the  pass  to 
the  North,  are  seven  semicircles  of  earth  and  rock  thrown  up 
at  wide  intervals. 

What's  this?  * 

When  pioneers  passed  through  the  gap  going  out  from  Vir- 
ginia, no  redoubts  confronted  them;  only  the  Indian  with  his 
bow  or  rifle.  Who  were  they  that  wanted  to  come  back  through 
the  Gap  and  were  met  with  guns  in  the  battery? 

They  were  the  children  of  those  who  had  gone  fiom  the 
South  to  the  winning  of  the  West;  and,  from  the  conquered 
West,  they  came  through  the  Gap  which  their  fathers  had  worn 
deep  in  the  soil — came  to  conquer  and  devastate  the  South. 

Far  down  there,  on  the  plains  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains, 
lies  Waynesboro;  and,  at  Waynesboro,  Sheridan  and  Early 
fought. 

Let  your  eye  range  over  that  wondrous  valley;  in  your 
fancy  you  can  fill  it  with  warring  armies,  dead  and  dying  men, 
riderless  horses,  burning  towns,  ruined  homes.  Into  many  of 
those  valley  cisterns  and  wells,  dead  men  were  flung  until  the 
cistern  was  full.  Many  of  those  gardens  over  there  have  trenches 
full  of  soldiers'  bones. 

And  through  this  famous  Gaj)  rode  and  marched  the  Blue 
and  the  Gray,  until  that  splendid  gentleman  and  soldier.  Colonel 
C.  C.  Talliaferro,  of  Roanoke,  carried  the  flag  of  })eace  from 
Lee  to  Grant,  and  Appomattox  rang  the  curtain  down. 

We   were   sitting   on   a    huge    boulder,    gazing   towards    the 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  27 

Massanutten  Mountains,  when  he  said  to  me,  reflectively,  look- 
ing at  the  ruins  of  the  old  Tavern: 

"The  last  time  I  was  here,  was  forty-odd  years  ago.  I  was 
going  horseback  on  a  staff  duty  for  ( leneral  Lee,  to  Charlottes- 
ville. I  rode  in  at  that  lower  gate  yonder,  and  stopped  in  front 
of  the  Tavern.  I  recollect  that  a  number  of  gentlemen  were 
sitting  on  the  veranda,  drinking  mint- juleps.  I  asked  if  I  could 
get  something  to  feed  my  horse  on,  and  I  was  told  that  I  couldn't. 
There  was  nothing  to  feed  him  on.  I  had  to  ride  on  down  to 
Afton  to  get  him  fed." 

After  the  war,  this  officer  went  to  school  at  Lexington;  then 
he  settled  in  Georgia,  became  one  of  my  lieutenants  in  the  great 
battle  for  Populism,  got  enough  of  that  pretty  soon,  and  is 
now,  like  ''the  Thane  of  Cawdor,  a  prosperous  gentleman,"  who 
attends  to  his  own  private  business,  and  doesn't  care  "a  conti- 
nental d — n"  for  politics. 

Meanwhile,  I  still  dream  dreams  and  see  visions;  and  I 
look  through  and  beyond  these  shadows  of  the  valley,  to  where 
the  sunlight  catches  the  far-off  tops  of  the  mountains;  and 
while  I  know  that  the  distance  is  too  great  for  me  now,  and  the 
climb  too  much  for  my  strength,  yet  the  course  shall  be  laid 
towards  it,  even  though  I  go  alone,  and  do  not  reach  the  heights. 


Convalescent 


"V/"  OU  had  been  a  very  sick  man.  For  months  the  elements 
of  disease  had  been  gathering  in  your  system — you  had 
vaguely  suspected  it,  and  had  spoken  of  it — but  had  not  known 
what  to  do;  so  you  had  gone  on  from  week  to  week,  slowly 
approaching  a  crisis.  At  last  some  trifling  cause,  some  one- 
straw-too-many,  had  precipitated  the  inevitable,  and  had 
knocked  you  over.  It  might  have  been  a  stale  "blue  point"  at 
a  late  dinner,  a  tainted  bit  of  fish,  a  salad  which  angrily  re- 
sented the  wine — it  might  have  been  one  of  a  dozen  errors  in 
diet;  but,  whatever  it  was,  you  awoke  at  midnight  to  find  your- 
self in  the  throes  of  pain,  and  with  the  swiftest  possible  speed 
you  stepped  down  toward  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow. 

Week  after  week  you  lay  abed,  racked  with  pain.  The 
frightful  cough  which  shook  you  almost  to  the  point  of  ex- 
haustion, the  shiver  of  cold  and  the  burning  fever,  the  rheu- 
matism which  swelled  and  stiffened  every  joint — then  the  lassi- 
tude of  utter  weakness  in  which  you  could  barely  muster  strength 
to  answer  necessary  questions  or  to  swallow  necessary  medicine. 

It  was  a  toss-up  as  to  whether  you  would  die.  You  knew 
it,  and  you  didn't  care. 

Of  all  the  phenomena  of  illness,  that  surprised  you  most. 
You  looked  Death  in  the  face,  and  were  not  afraid.  You  sim- 
ply didn't  care. 

Over  the  mantel  was  a  picture  of  a  schoolboy  of  twelve 
years, — school-book  and  school-bucket  in  hand,  and  a  white 
wool  hat  on  his  head;  and  in  his  freckled  face  the  bold,  frank, 
confident  look  of  robust  youth. 

During  all  the  years  and  all  the  changes,  you  had  cherished 
the  little  picture — a  souvenir  of  days  when  the  world  was  young 
to  you,  and  none  of  the  illusions  was  lost. 

Now  that  you  were  so  very  ill  that  even  She  grew  pro- 
foundly anxious,  you  looked  from  the  bed,  waved  a  feeble  hand 
at  the  little  boy  over  the  mantel,  and  whispered,  "You  haven't 
got  much  farther  to  go,  little  boy." 

But  for  Her,  you  didn't  mind  it,  at  all.  She  would  grieve 
— you  knew  that — and  for  Her  sake  you  would  keep  up  the 
fight;  otherwise,  it  did  not  at  all  matter  to  you  whether  the 
long  lane  turned  or  not.  For  you  had  reached  middle  age, 
and  the  illusions  were  gone.  Perhaps  yours  had  been  a  hard 
life — unusually  hard.     Perhaps,  in  everything  which  you   had 

(28) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  29 

undertaken,  it  had  cost  you  twice  as  much  toil  and  persistence 
to  succeed  as  it  had  seemed  to  cost  other  men. 

Perhaps,  you  had  come  to  realize  that  you  were  one  of  those 
men  with  whom  Fortune  deals  grudgingly,  one  of  those  whom 
Hope  deceives  and  Success  laughs  at;  one  of  those  who  always 
has  wind  and  wave  against  him,  and  who  never  by  any  sort  of 
chance  finds  himself  in  league  with  Luck. 

It  may  have  been  that  when  you  were  a  boy  you  read  too 
much,  thought  more  soberly  than  most  boys  do,  and  dreamed 
dreams  of  the  future.  It  may  have  been  the  ambition  of  your 
life  to  work  manfully  until  you  could  possess  a  competence  and 
then,  made  independent  of  Poverty,  to  devote  every  talent  and 
energy  to  the  service  of  your  country. 

Public  life  allured  you.  To  be  a  Tribune  of  the  People, 
leading  them  upward  and  onward,  cheered  by  their  applause, 
made  happy  by  the  blessings  of  those  whom  your  life-work 
elevated  and  benefited,  seemed  to  you  the  noblest  task  you 
could  undertake. 

To  prepare  for  it,  you  became  a  lawyer.  In  no  other  pro- 
fession could  you  hope  to  earn  an  income  so  quickly  and  so 
surely.  You  buried  yourself  in  books.  The  midnight  lamp 
never  failed  to  find  you  at  study.  Year  in  and  year  out,  you 
worked  by  day  and  studied  by  night. 

You  began  with  pitifully  small  fees.  Often  you  rode  all 
day,  to  and  from  Justices'  Courts,  to  earn  the  half  of  five  dol- 
lars. The  entire  labor  of  your  first  year  at  the  Bar  gained  you 
but  two  hundred  and  twelve  dollars.  You  lived  in  the  country, 
ate  a  cold  dinner  which  you  had  brought  to  your  office  with 
you,  and  waited  for  clients — eager  for  work. 

Year  after  year  passed.  So  wrapped  up  were  you  in  study, 
labor,  anxiety,  ambition,  that  fireside  pleasures  were  almost 
unknown  to  you,  and  you  lost — ah,  the  sadness  of  it  now! — 
the  holy  joys  of  home  life  with  your  children  while  they  were 
still  children. 

Ten  years  passed — then  three  more;  and  then  the  goal  was 
reached.     You  were  safe.     You  had  gained  a  competence. 

Fear  of  Poverty  would  trouble  you  no  more. 

You  closed  your  office,  went  before  the  people,  explained  the 
principles  which  formed  your  creed,  and  asked  to  be  elected  as 
their  Representative  in  the  national  councils. 

Court-house  rings,  town  cliques,  professional  wire-pullers 
were  all  against  you;  but  you  went  into  the  country  precincts, 
you  spoke  to  the  people  in  the  village  streets,  at  the  country 
school-grounds,  at  the  crossroad-stores.  Wherever  fifteen  or 
twenty  would  assemble,  there  you  would  speak  to  them. 

The  politicians  laughed  at  you;  but  when  your  opponent 
came  home  from  Washington  to  meet  you  in  debate  before  the 


30 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES 


mass-meetings  throughout  the  district,  lo!  the  people  were  with 
you,  and  your  triumph  at  the  polls  was  unprecedented  in  your 
State. 

Your  political  party,  which  in  convention  after  convention 
had  adopted  your  platform,  suddenly  changed  front  and  de- 
nounced those  principles. 


'A   PICTURE   OF   A   SCHOOL   BOY      *      * 
SCHOOL-DOOK  AND  SCHOOL-BUCKET 
IN    HAND." 


What  were  you  to  do? 

You  decided  that  principlcfi  were  dearer  than  party,  and 
you  stood  by  your  principles. 

The  peojilc  of  your  district  indorsed  you — nine  counties  out 
of  eleven  giving  you  overwhelming  majorities.  In  the  other 
two  counties,  the  swindlers  who  had  charge  of  the  ballot-boxes 
simply  stuffed  them  with  ballots  enough  to  beat  you;  and  so 
the  people  were  robbed  of  representation. 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  31 

As  to  you,  the  dream  of  your  boyhood  was  at  an  end. 

The  object  aimed  at,  in  thirteen  years  of  steady,  life-absorb- 
ing toil,  was  forever  put  beyond  your  reach. 

It  was  hard,  wasn't  it? 

You  tried  again,  at  another  election.  The  result  was  the 
same.  Once  more  you  tried.  Result,  as  before.  You  appealed 
to  Congress.  Both  political  parties  hated  you  and  your  creed. 
Both  voted  to  bar  you  out. 

You  asked  for  a  hearing  on  the  floor  of  the  House.  It  was 
denied  you — for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  your  country. 

Then,  exhausted  and  disheartened,  you  quit  the  hopeless 
contest.  Your  enemies  shouted  with  great  joy,  and  amid  bon- 
fires and  street  parades,  you  were  burned  in  efligy — a  disgraced 
and  ruined  man. 

You  almost  wished  that  you  were  dead.  How  near  you 
came  to  losing  your  reason  and  your  life,  in  the  bitter  grief  of 
that  crushing  disappointment — She  knows — She,  only. 

Then  you  shut  the  world  out  of  your  life;  buried  yourself 
to  all  but  the  very  few;  called  around  you  the  serene  com- 
panionship of  Great  Authors,  breathed  the  atmosphere  of  the 
past;  entered  into  the  lives,  the  hopes,  the  struggles,  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  sublime  reformers  to  whose  courage  and  sacrifice 
we  owe  all  that  makes  the  world  tolerable — all  that  gives  us 
liberty  of  person,  of  conscience,  of  speech. 

And  then,  full  of  the  inspiration  drawn  from  the  lives  of 
these  grand  pioneers  of  human  progress,  you  reached  out  for 
the  long-idle  pen,  and  you  wrote. 

Ah,  how  your  heart  did  forget  its  own  troubles,  in  that  work! 
You  wrote,  and  wrote,  and  wrote — many  a  night  till  it  seemed 
that  you  alone  of  all  the  world  was  awake;  the  pen  all  too  slow 
to  follow  the  burning  thought.  Many  a  time,  you  reeled  with 
fatigue  as  you  rose  from  the  desk  where  six  hours  or  eight,  of 
whose  flight  you  had  been  unconscious,  had  sped;  many  a  time, 
the  page  was  blotted  with  tears,  and  you  could  not  go  on. 

Always,  always,  your  soul  was  in  the  pen,  and  you  wrote  no 
word  that  did  not  come  from  the  heart. 

At  length  the  task  was  finished,  and  your  book  (blue- 
penciled  horribly  by  a  critic  who  was  afterward  adjudged  a 
lunatic)   came  forth. 

What  really  had  you  hoped? 

Had  you  dared  to  believe  that  the  world  would  be  fair  to 
any  book  bearing  your  discredited  name? 

Had  you  faintly  breathed  some  pathetic  prayer,  that  the 
fierce  abuse  which  had  beat  upon  you  as  a  political  leader  might 
spare  your  book? 

Poor  fool,  you! 


32 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES 


Political  hatred,  like  religious  bigotry,  never  forgets  and 
never  forgives. 

The  very  college  professors  who  had  examined  your  manu- 
script for  the  publishers;  and  who  had,  in  writing,  pronounced 
your  history  "the  greatest  since  Macaulay,"  caught  the  conta- 
gion of  attack;  and  they  assailed  you  as  savagely  in  the  re- 
views, as  though  3^ou  were  a  cross  between  Jack  Cade  and  Marat. 
Your  book  was  damned — incontinently,  successfully,  eternally 
damned. 


THE  LOG  SCHOOL  HOUSE  IN  SCREVEN  CO..  GA., 
WHERE   MR.   WATSON   TAUGHT  SCHOOL. 


But  you  nuist  needs  try  again.  Perhaps  you  would  liave 
better  luck  next  time. 

•So  once  more  it  was  toil  at  the  desk;  once  more  there  was 
the  rapture  of  composition;  once  more  the  long,  shining  lines 
of  thought  swept  before  your  mental  vision,  and  you  were  caught 
up  into  and  swept  away  by  the  ecstacy  of  creative  composition. 

Surely  the  world  would  be  interested  this  time;  sureh^  the 
work  and  the  workman  would  be  recognized,  appreciated.  Not 
so.  The  world  had  no  more  of  welcome  for  the  second  book 
than  for  the  first.  Yet  you  tried  once  more.  The  third  failed 
like  the  second;  and  a  fourth  completed  the  melancholy  list. 

Then  you  thought  it  time  to  quit,  and  you  quit — swallow- 
ing as  best  you  could  the  bitter  pill  of  failure,  and  the  pangs 
of  unconditional  surrender. 

What  was  left? 

Could  you  try  your  hand  at  anything  else? 

Oh,  yes,  you  could  go  to  work  and  make  more  money.  And 
you  did  so.     It  was  the  only  thing  you  could  do.     With  dis- 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  33 

gusting  facility,  you  could  heap  thousand  upon  thousand.  In 
the  court-house,  you  could  name  your  own  fees;  you  could 
choose  your  own  cases.  On  the  lecture  platform,  you  could 
name  your  own  price,  and  you  could  earn  as  much  or  as  little 
as  you  would. 

Four  or  five  years  passed;  and  the  one  thing  of  which  you 
had  enough  was,  money. 

But  the  old  hunger  gnawed  at  your  heart.  You  were  not 
happy.  You  longed  to  do  something  worthier  of  what  was  best 
in  your  nature.  You  longed  to  fight  a  good  fight  for  justice,  for 
better  laws,  for  beneficent  institutions,  for  conditions  that  are 
more  equitable,  for  a  fairer  distribution  of  the  bounties  and 
blessings  of  nature  and  human  industry.  You  scorned  the  mere 
getting  of  money.  You  wanted  to  be  useful,  to  be  a  power  for 
good,  to  be  a  leader  of  public  opinion,  to  the  end  that  the  best 
principles  and  the  best  ideals  might  prevail. 

You  especially  wanted  to  reach  the  young;  and  to  lay  your 
hands  gently  upon  the  lines  of  their  thought  and  conviction,  so 
that,  long  after  you  were  gone  from  earth,  you  would  live,  in 
the  patriotic  endeavor  of  men  ivhose  efforts  for  good  might  be 
happier  than  your  own. 

So  once  more  you  take  up  the  pen. 

And  it  so  happens  that,  in  the  very  midst  of  this  new  ambi- 
tion and  new  work,  disease  strikes  j^ou  down. 

No  wonder  you  grow  weary.    No  wonder  you  feel  indifferent. 

The  way  has  been  long,  and  it  has  been  rugged,  and  at  last 
you  are  tired. 

You  look,  just  a  little  contemptuously,  in  the  very  face  of 
Death,  and  you  say  in  your  thought — "I'm  sure  to  be  yours 
sooner  or  later;  take  me  now,  if  you  like." 

And,  to  the  little  boy  on  the  mantel,  you  lift  you  eyes  and 
whisper,  with  a  half-mocking  smile,  "Not  much  farther  now, 
little  boy." 

Yes;  it  all  depended  upon  whether  the  inflammation  would 
extend.  You  knew  that  well  enough;  and  when  the  nurse  ap- 
plied hot  cloth  after  hot  cloth,  hour  after  hour,  for  twelve  hours, 
you  knew  what  it  meant.  It  was  a  pitched  battle  between 
Death  and  the  nurse. 

Well,  the  nurse  won. 

The  fever  and  pain  stood  at  bay;  the  exhausted  nurse  stag- 
gered off  to  take  her  rest;  and  when  morning  broke,  you  knew 
that  you  would  get  well. 

Were  you  glad?  Not  particularly  so.  Just  what  you  had 
to  live  for,  was  not  so  clear  to  you  as  it  used  to  be. 

You  came  back  to  life  without  regret,  and  without  enthu- 
siasm. 


34  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

The  song  of  the  birds  is  sweet,  but  not  sweeter  than  before. 
The  rustle  of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  the  breath  of  the  flowers, 
the  lazy  beauty  of  the  distant  landscape,  the  splendor  of  sum- 
mer evening,  sunsets,  and  rising  moons — all  these  are  glorious 
to  you,  but  not  more  so  than  they  ever  were. 

Convalescent?  Yes,  convalescent.  On  Her  account  you  are 
glad.     She  would  have  missed  you. 

As  for  the  rest  of  it — the  horse  is  back  in  the  treadmill,  and 
the  dull  plodding  around  the  circle  goes  on  as  before. 


Glimpses  Behind  the  Curtain 

(~\P  history  one  may  grow  tired,  but  who  does  not  find  peren- 

^-^nial  interest  in  piquant  Memoirs  and  chatty  biographies? 

History  was  ever  too  stilted  to  pick  up  trifles,  and  yet  trifles 
are  often  priceless,  for  they  reveal  hidden  causes  and  unlock 
the  mysteries  of  events  and  of  character. 

History  passes  along  the  highway  with  pageantry,  with  im- 
posing mein,  formal  stride  and  orderly  procession. 

Branching  off  from  this  main  historical  thoroughfare,  run 
the  by-roads,  the  quiet  lanes,  the  wandering  trails  of  personal 
detail,  of  minor  incident,  of  spicy  anecdote,  of  subordinate  epi- 
sode that  shed  vivid  sidelights  upon  that  stately  narrative  which 
travels  by  the  highroad. 

It  may  not  be  true  that  the  course  of  time  turned  upon  the 
length  of  Cleopatra's  nose,  or  upon  the  grain  of  sand  in  Crom- 
well's ureter,  as  Blaise  Paschal  surmises;  but  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  a  very  trivial  word,  or  fact,  has  often  the  appear- 
ance of  being  a  necessary  link  in  the  chain  of  decisive  events. 

The  assassin  who  sprang  upon  the  wheel  of  Henry  the 
Fourth's  carriage  and  thrust  a  dagger  into  a  fatal  spot,  cer- 
tainly changed  the  political  situation  of  Europe;  and  it  seems 
probable  that  the  train  of  events  which  led  up  to  the  murder 
arose  out  of  the  fury  of  a  woman  scorned. 

The  German  Empire  today  is  a  mighty  product  of  ambi- 
tion, ruthless  perseverance,  and  unscrupulous  valor;  but  had  not 
the  sudden  death  of  the  great  Catherine  taken  the  Russian 
armies  out  of  the  field,  Prussia  would  perhaps  have  been  parti- 
tioned, as  Poland  was,  afterwards. 

There  was  a  time  when  France  wavered  between  Catholi- 
cism and  Protestantism;  and  the  national  faith  of  the  nation 
hung  upon  the  decision  of  one  man.  The  woman  who  controlled 
Francis  the  First,  at  this  crisis,  fixed  the  destinies  of  the  realm. 

And  whoever  the  woman  was,  she,  in  turn,  was  putty  in  the 
hands  of  a  priest. 

The  Canadian  empire  was  lost  to  France  because  Montcalm 
could  not  get  supplies.  And  why  could  he  not  get  the  means 
of  defense?  Because  the  scarlet  woman  of  a  libertine  Bourbon 
king  needed  the  money.  There  was  not  enough  in  the  treasury 
for  the  soldiers  and  the  courtiers,  too;  and  therefore  the  cour- 
tiers, being  on  the  ground,  helped  themselves,  leaving  the  sol- 

(35) 


36  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

diers  to  suffer  privations  and  the  lack  of  necessary  munitions 
of  war. 

Edward  Lacey,  of  South  Carolina,  rode  eighty  miles  to  warn 
the  Mountaineer  horsemen  of  the  South  not  to  "take  the  wrong 
road;  had  his  horse  fallen  with  him,  as  he  galloped,  the  warning 
might  not  have  been  given,  and  the  battle  of  King's  Mountain 
not  fought.  Without  that  victory,  Cornwallis  would  hardly  have 
been  forced  to  retreat  upon  Yorktown. 

But  our  purpose  is  not  so  much  to  show  the  influence  of 
small  events  over  large  results  as  to  emphasize  their  signifi- 
cance in  revealing  motive,  giving  insight  into  character,  and 
modifying  by  personal  detail  the  historical  portraits  of  great 
men. 

The  George  Washington  of  the  battle-field,  of  the  council 
of  war,  of  the  Cabinet,  of  the  parlor,  and  the  public  place,  is 
sufficiently  familiar  to  most  Americans;  and  a  grand  historical 
figure  he  is;  but  for  my  part  I  could  not  thoroughly  understand 
him,  or  feel  that  he  was  human,  like  the  rest  of  us,  if  Memoirs 
and  Biographies  had  not  told  us  how  he  "cussed  out"  Gen.  Chas. 
Lee  on  the  field  of  Monmouth,  swore  at  the  prankish  boy  who 
was  speeding  his  favorite  horse,  and  broke  the  gun  of  the  poacher 
whom  he  caught  prowling  in  the  Mt.  Vernon  marsh. 

Then  when  we  find  him  laughing  till  he  cries,  as  the  Brit- 
ish officer  sang  that  funny,  naughty  song,  and  hear  him  call 
for  it  to  be  sung  over  again,  we  warm  up  to  him  mightily — he 
is  behaving  like  a  man  and  not  like  a  demi-god. 

Could  we  ever  understand  Henry  Clay,  if  we  confined  our- 
selves to  historical  and  partisan  biography?  What  do  such 
books  tell  us  of  the  manf     Mighty  little. 

_  A  "gentleman  gambler"  pretty  much  all  of  his  life,  a  hard 
drinker  for  many  years,  profane  and  over-bearing,  from  first 
to  last,  yet  warm-hearted,  gallant,  dashing,  proud,  fearless,  and, 
withal,  a  very  tricky,  selfish,  calculating  politician,  who  did  his 
country  a  vast  deal  of  harm. 

Somebody  asked  Mrs.  Clay  if  her  husband's  gambling  did 
not  worry  and  trouble  her. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  she,  "he  most  alwa^^s  wins." 

To  see  Henry  Clay  in  the  Senate,  is  to  see  personal  dignity 
personified;  go  with  him  to  a  country  dance,  and  you  will  hear 
him  call  for  a  reel,  and  when  the  fiddlers  do  not  happen  to  know 
the  tune,  he  will  whistle  it  to  them  until  they  learn  it. 

Stanton  in  his  "Random  Recollections"  tells  this  anecdote: 

"In  the  stormy  days  of  John  Tyler,  while  Webster  was 
Secretary  of  State,  and  Rufus  Choate  was  in  the  Senate,  and 
Congress  was  in  extra  session  in  the  Fall  of  1841,  the  question 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  37 

of  chartering  United  States  bank  was  shaking  the  countiy.  Mr. 
Clay,  as  chairman  of  the  Finance  Committee  in  the  Senate, 
was  pressing  the  measure,  and  Tyler  was  resisting  it.  A  con- 
ference of  leading  Whig  Senators  was  held.  Clay,  with  lofty 
mein,  was  for  waging  relentless  war  on  the  accidental  presi- 
dent, who  had  stepped  into  the  White  House  over  the  dead  body 
of  General  Harrison.  Choate  again  and  again  told  what  Web- 
ster thought  ought  to  be  done.  Clay  was  restive,  and  exclaimed, 
'Who  cares  a  d — n  about  what  Webster  thinks?'  " 

Henry  A.  Wise,  in  his  "Seven  Decades,"  gives  a  graphic  de- 
scription of  the  manner  in  which  Clay  took  the  news  of  his  defeat 
for  the  Whig  nomination  in  1840. 

"In  the  very  hour  of  his  defeat  he  was  sitting  in  a  room 
at  Brown's  Hotel,  anxiously  waiting  to  hear  of  his  nomination. 
He  made  most  singular  exhibitions  of  himself  in  that  moment 
of  ardent  expectancy. 

"He  was  open  and  exceedingly  profane  in  his  denunciation 
of  the  intriguers  against  his  nomination.  We  had  taken  two 
Whig  friends  of  our  district  to  see  him;  and  after  they  had 
sat  some  time  listening  to  him,  in  utter  surprise  at  his  remarks, 
full  of  the  most  impudent,  coarse  crimination  of  others,  in 
words  befiitting  only  a  barroom  in  vulgar  broil,  of  a  sudden 
he  stopped,  and  turning  to  the  two  gentlemen,  who  were  dressed 
in  black  and  both  strangers  to  him,  he  said,  'But,  gentlemen,  for 
aught  I  know,  from  your  cloth  you  may  be  parsons,  and  shocked 
at  my  words.  Let  us  take  a  glass  of  wine!'  and  rising  from  his 
seat,  he  walked  to  a  well-loaded  side-board,  at  which,  evidently, 
he  had  been  imbibing  deeply  before  we  entered. 

"Thereupon  we  bowed  and  took  leave.  One  of  the  gentle- 
men, after  retiring,  remarked,  'That  man  can  never  be  my 
political  idol  again;'  and  from  that  time  to  this  he  has  ceased 
to  admire  him.  In  a  short  time  after  that  he  (Mr.  Clay)  went 
across  the  avenue  to  the  parlor  of  his  boarding  house,  where 
he  awaited  the  arrival  of  his  two  personal  friends,  on  the  night 
of  the  nomination  at  Harrisburg,  to  bring  him  the  news  of  the 
final  proceedings  and  choice  of  the  Whig  Convention. 

"We  went  to  the  depot  and  got  the  intelligence  of  the  nomi- 
nation of  General  Harrison  and  Mr.  Tyler,  and  hastened  back 
to  him  with  the  news.  Such  an  exhibition  we  never  witnessed 
before,  and  we  pray  never  again  to  witness  such  an  exhibition 
of  passion,  such  a  storm  of  desperation  and  curses.  He  rose 
from  his  chair,  and,  walking  backwards  and  forwards  rapidly, 
lifting  his  feet  like  a  horse  string-halted  in  both  legs,  stamped 
his  steps  upon  the  floor,  exclaiming,  'My  friends  are  not  worth 
the  powder  and  shot  it  would  take  to  kill  them!'    He  mentioned 


38  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

the  names  of  several,  invoking  upon  them  the  most  horrid  im- 
precations, and  then,  turning  to  us,  approached  rapidly,  and 
stopping  before  us,  with  violent  gesture  and  loud  voice,  said, 
'If  there  were  two  Henry  Clays,  one  of  them  would  make  the 
other  President  of  the  United  States.'  " 

****** 

In  the  "Memoirs  of  One  Hundred  Years,"  Dr.  Edward 
Everett  Hale  labors  to  remove  the  impression  that  Daniel  Web- 
ster got  drunk.  In  the  innocence  of  his  noble  heart.  Dr.  Hale 
states  that  he  saw  much  of  Webster,  and  that  he  never  saw 
him  drunk. 

Alas!  he  did  get  drunk,  nevertheless.  And  he  had  little 
idea  of  honor  in  financial  matters;  and  it  was  disgraceful  for 
him  to  pocket,  annually,  the  pension  contributed  by  those  New 
England  capitalists  whose  interests  he  was  furthering  in  Con- 
gress. The  Senator  who  would  now  openly  do  such  a  thing 
would  be  ostracised.  Senators  still  receive  pay  from  the  spe- 
cial interests  which  they  slavishly  serve,  but  the  bribery  does 
not,  nowadays,  take  the  form  of  a  yearly  pension. 

Ben  Perley  Poore  in  his  ''Reminiscences"  relates: 

"An  amusing  account  has  been  given  of  an  after-dinner 
speech  by  Mr.  Webster  at  a  gathering  of  his  political  friends, 
when  he  had  to  be  prompted  by  a  friend  who  sat  just  behind 
him,  and  gave  him  successively  phrases  and  topics.  The  speech 
proceeded  somewhat  after  this  fashion:  Prompter:  'Tariff.' 
Webster:  'The  tariff,  gentlemen,  is  a  subject  requiring  the  pro- 
found attention  of  the  statesman.  American  industry,  gentle- 
men, must  be — (nods  a  little).  Prompter:  'National  Debt.' 
Webster:  'And,  gentlemen,  there's  the  national  debt — it  should 
be  paid  (loud  cheers,  which  rouse  the  speaker)  ;  yes,  gentlemen, 
it  should  be  paid  (cheers),  and  I'll  be  hanged  if  it  shan't  be 
(taking  out  his  pocketbook)  ;  I'll  pay  it  myself.  How  much 
is  it?'  This  last  question  was  asked  of  a  gentleman  near  him 
with  drunken  seriousness,  and,  coupled  with  the  recollection  of 
the  well-known  impecuniosity  of  Webster's  pocketbook,  it  ex- 
cited roars  of  laughter,  amidst  which  the  orator  sank  into  his 
seat  and  was  soon  asleep." 

****** 

Perhaps  the  vainest,  most  pompous  of  all  our  public  men 
was  Thomas  H.  Benton.  His  conceit  was  colossal.  In  fact,  it 
was  so  majestic  and  overpowering  that,  as  one  of  his  biogra- 
phers says,  it  assumed  the  proportion  of  a  national  institution. 
Mr.  Roosevelt  wrote  a  "Life"  of  Benton  in  1886,  too  soon  to 
make  use  of  this  delicious  anecdote  which  Mrs.  Clement  C. 
Clay  relates  in  her  charming  book,  "A  Belle  of  the  Fifties," 
published  by'D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  in  1905: 


PRO^E  MISCELLANIES  39 

"A  handsome  man  in  ordinary  attire,  the  great  old  author 
and  statesman  was  yet  a  more  striking  figure  when  mounted. 
He  rode  with  a  stately  dignity,  quite  unlike  the  pace  indulged 
in  by  some  other  equestrians  of  that  city  and  day;  a  day,  it 
may  be  said  in  passing,  when  equestrianism  was  common.  Mr. 
Benton's  appearance  and  the  slow  gait  of  his  horse  impressed 
me  as  powerful  and  even  majestic,  and  often  (as  I  remarked 
to  him  at  dinner  one  evening)  there  flashed  through  my  mind, 
as  I  saw  him,  a  remembrance  of  Byron's  Moorish  king  as  he 
rode  benignly  through  the  streets  of  Granada.  He  seemed  grati- 
fied at  my  comparison. 

"  'I'm  glad  you  approve  of  my  pace,'  he  said.  'I  ride  slowly 
because  I  do  not  wish  to  be  confounded  with  postboys  and  mes- 
sengers sent  in  haste  for  the  surgeon.  They  may  gallop  if  they 
will,  but  not  Senators!" 

Oh,  heavens!  What  would  the  Honorable  Tom  have  thought 
of  a  President  (Roosevelt)  who  rushed  away  from  a  Cabinet 
meeting  to  gallop,  leap  the  bars,  etc.,  while  the  camera  man  made 
snapshots  at  the  Presidential  horsemanship? 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

That  brilliant,  outrageous  scold,  John  Randolph,  of  Roan- 
oke, is  always  interesting,  but  much  more  so  in  the  Memoirs 
than  in  the  histories.  Here  is  the  way  Ben  Perley  Poore  de- 
scribes him: 

"He  used  to  enter  the  Senate  Chamber  wearing  a  pair  of 
silver  spurs,  carrying  a  heavy  riding  whip,  and  followed  by  a 
favorite  hound,  which  crouched  beneath  his  desk.  He  wrote, 
and  occasionally  spoke,  in  riding  gloves,  and  it  was  his  favorite 
gesture  to  point  the  long  index  finger  of  his  right  hand  at  his 
opponent  as  he  hurled  forth  tropes  and  figures  of  speech  at 
him.  Every  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  while  he  occupied  the  floor, 
he  would  exclaim  in  a  low  tone:  'Tims,  more  porter!'  and  the 
assistant  doorkeeper  would  hand  him  a  foaming  tumbler  of 
potent  malt  liquor,  which  he  would  hurriedly  drink,  and  then 
proceed  with  his  remarks,  often  thus  drinking  three  or  four 
quarts  in  an  afternoon.  He  was  not  choice  in  his  selection  of 
epithets,  and  as  Mr.  Calhoun  took  the  ground  that  he  did  not 
have  the  power  to  call  a  Senator  to  order,  the  irate  Virginian 
pronounced  President  Adams  'a  traitor,'  Daniel  Webster  'a 
vile  slanderer,'  John  Holmes  'a  dangerous  fool,'  and  Edward 
Livingston  'the  most  contemptible  and  degraded  of  beings,  whom 
no  man  ought  to  touch,  unless  with  a  pair  of  tongs.'  One  day, 
while  he  was  speaking  with  great  freedom  of  abuse  of  Mr.  Web- 
ster, then  a  member  of  the  House,  a  Senator  informed  him  in 
an  undertone  that  Mrs.  Webster  was  in  the  gallery.  He  had 
not  the  delicacy  to  desist,  however,  until  he  had  fully  emptied 


40  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

the  vials  of  his  wrath.  Then  he  set  upon  Mr.  Speaker  Taylor, 
and  after  abusing  him  soundly  he  turned  sarcastically  to  the 
gentleman  who  informed  him  of  Mrs.  Webster's  presence,  and 
asked,  'Is  Mrs.  Taylor  present  also?'  " 

-:f  *  *  *  *  * 

Do  you  admire  Charles  Sumner?  He  was  a  great  scholar, 
a  great  orator,  and  the  histories  do  him  full  justice.  If  you 
would  see  into  the  nature  of  the  man,  you  must  dip  into  Col. 
Pond's  books,  "The  Eccentricities  of  Genius": 

"Charles  Sumner  was  an  aristocrat.  He  was  my  father's 
ideal.  After  I  had  got  back  from  Kansas,  and  visited  my  father's 
home  in  Wisconsin,  father  said  to  me:  'James,  the  Honorable 
Charles  Sumner  is  going  to  speak  at  R — .  We  must  hear  him.' 
"So  we  arranged  to  go.  We  walked  nine  miles  to  hear  him 
speak.  My  father  never  spoke  of  him  without  giving  him  his 
title.  He  had  enjoyed  that  speech  immensely.  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  did  or  not.  Father  occupied  a  front  seat  with  the 
intention  of  rushing  up  to  the  platform  and  greeting  him  by 
the  hand  when  he  was  finished,  but  the  Honorable  Charles  was 
too  quick  for  him.  He  disappeared,  got  to  his  hotel,  and  no- 
body saw  him. 

"Father  said:  'James,  the  Honorable  Charles  Sumner  is 
going  to  Milwaukee  tomorrow  morning,  and  we  can  ride  with 
him  a  part  of  the  way.' 

"We  were  on  the  train  early  the  next  morning,  and  so  was 
the  Honorable  Charles  Sumner.  He  was  sitting  reading  in 
the  drawing-room  car. 

"Father  stepped  up  and  said:  'The  Honorable  ;Charles 
Sumner?  I  have  read  all  of  your  speeches.  I  feel  it  is  the  duty 
of  every  American  to  take  you  by  the  hand.  This  is  my  son. 
He  has  just  returned  from  the  Kansas  conflict.' 

"Honorable  Charles  Sumner  did  not  see  father  nor  his  son, 
but  he  saw  the  porter  and  said:  'Can  you  get  me  a  place  where 
I  will  be  undisturbed?' 

"Poor  father!     His  heart  was  almost  broken.     During  his 

last  twenty-five  years  he  never  referred  to  the  Honorable  Charles 

Sumner." 

****** 

In  the  enjoyment  of  Memoirs  and  Reminiscences  you  must 
not  be  lulled  into  the  error  of  indiscriminate  credulity.  You 
must  sort  and  sift  and  compare  authorities,  and  thus  out  of  much 
conflict  of  testimony  arrive  at  a  just  conclusion.  For  example, 
take  this  story  which  we  find  in  the  Reminiscences  of  Ben  Perley 
Poore : 

"General  Grant  was  very  positive  in  demanding  that  all 
officers   of   the   Confederate   army   should   enjoy   their   liberty. 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  41 

Among  those  of  them  who  had  been  imprisoned  by  order  of 
the  Secretary  of  War  was  General  Clement  C.  Clay,  an  ex- 
United  States  Senator  from  Alabama.  He  was  taken  ill  in  prison 
with  asthma,  and  his  wife  came  to  Washington  to  solicit  his 
release.  She  went  to  President  Johnson,  and  he  gave  her  the 
necessary  order,  which  she  took  to  Secretary  Stanton.  Stanton 
read  the  order,  and  looked  her  in  the  face,  tore  it  up  without 
a  word  and  pitched  it  into  his  waste-basket.  The  lady  rose  and 
retired  without  speaking;  nor  did  Stanton  speak  to  her.  She 
was  filled  with  despair.  She  saw  her  husband,  in  whom  her 
life  was  wrapped  up,  dying  in  prison,  and  she  was  unable  to 
help  him. 

Soon  afterwards  she  was  advised  to  call  on  General  Grant, 
who  ascertained  by  consulting  his  roster  of  the  Confederate 
Army  that  her  husband  was  a  Brigadier-General,  then  wrote 
an  order  directing  his  release,  under  the  Appomattox  parole  on 
giving  the  required  bond,  and  added:  'I  shall  see  that  this  order 
is  carried  out.'  Having  signed  the  order,  he  gave  it  to  Mrs. 
Clay,  who  the  next  day  presented  it  to  the  Secretary  of  War. 
Mr.  Stanton  read  it,  then  touched  his  bell,  and  when  an  officer 
appeared,  handed  him  the  order,  saying:  'Have  this  man  dis- 
charged.' " 

That  sounds  veracious,  and  the  facts  stated  do  faithfully 
illustrate  the  character  of  the  persons  concerned.  But  the  story 
is  not  true.  If  you  will  read  what  Mrs.  Clay  herself  says  about 
it,  in  "A  Belle  of  the  Fifties,"  you  will  learn  that  the  order  of 
President  Johnson  was  respected,  and  that  she  herself  tele- 
graphed the  release  to  Fortress  Monroe  that  night.  General 
Clay  was  liberated  even  previous  to  the  arrival  of  the  formal 
order,  and  General  Grant's  powerful  aid  was  not  invoked  at 
all.  It  is  true  that  Stanton  did  urge  the  President  to  have  ex- 
President  Davis  and  General  Clay  put  to  death,  and  he  would 
not  countersign  the  order  of  release,  but  he  did  not  tear  up  the 
order.  ^  ^  »  »  *  # 

Does  history  tell  you  anything  about  the  manner  in  which 
the  great  Marlborough  stood  behind  the  chair  of  the  petty 
Prussian  King,  acting  as  a  menial,  and  protesting  that  the 
honor  of  doing  so  was  too  great  for  him?  No;  history  is  too 
dignified  to  notice  trifles  like  that;  and  yet  this  adroit  flattery 
had  a  mighty  influence  upon  the  course  of  events.  The  Prus- 
sian King  was  so  captivated  by  the  humility  of  the  English 
General  that  he  granted  the  Englishman's  plea  for  the  use  of 
Prussia's  fine  tfoops  in  the  war  against  France! 

Can  you  believe  that  the  Duke  of  Wellington  would  have 
been  equally  complaisant  to  gain  his  point? 

Read  what  Sir  F.  H.  Doyle  says  in  his  "Reminiscences:" 


42  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

"1  recollect  hearing  from  my  father  an  anecdote  told  him 
by  the  Duke  himself,  in  his  own  characteristic  language,  one 
day  when  he  was  dining  at  Apsley  House.  We  learn  from  it, 
with  what  contemptuous  indifference  this  great  man  pushed  aside 
all  considerations  of  personal  dignity — false  personal  dignity,  as 
he  thought  it — if  they  stood  in  the  way  of  his  duty  to  England. 
'After  the  battle  of  Talavera,'  he  said,  'I  wanted  the  Spanish 
force  to  make  a  movement,  and  called  upon  Cuesta  to  take  the 
necessary  steps,  but  he  demurred.  He  said,  by  way  of  answer, 
'For  the  honor  of  the  Spanish  crown  I  cannot  attend  to  the  direc- 
tions of  the  British  General,  unless  the  British  General  go  upon 
his  knees  and  entreat  me  to  follow  his  advice.'  'Now,'  pro- 
ceeded the  Duke,  'I  wanted  the  thing  done,  while  as  to  going 
down  upon  my  knees  I  did  not  care  a  two-penny  d — ^n,  so  down 
I  plumped.'  " 

****** 

You  know  all  about  Martin  Luther,  don't  you?  The  his- 
tories are  full  of  him  and  his  great  work,  the  Reformation, 

But  if  you  would  know  the  mental  state  of  Luther,  and  that 
of  the  leading  men  of  his  time,  you  should  read  his  ''Table 
Talk."  One  or  two  paragraphs  will  go  far  toward  showing  you 
the  vast  difference  between  the  current  beliefs  among  learned 
men  of  that  day,  and  ours: 

"There  was  at  Nieuburg  a  magician  named  Wildferer,  who, 
one  day,  swallowed  a  countryman,  with  his  horse  and  cart.  A 
few  hours  afterwards,  man,  horse,  and  cart,  were  all  found  in 
the  slough,  some  miles  off.  I  heard,  too,  of  a  seeming  monk 
who  asked  a  wagoner  that  was  taking  some  hay  to  market,  how 
much  he  would  charge  to  let  him  eat  his  fill  of  hay?  The  man 
said,  a  kreutzer,  whereupon  the  monk  set  to  work  and  had 
nearly  devoured  the  whole  load,  when  the  wagoner  drove  him 
off." 

August  25,  1538,  the  conversation  fell  upon  witches  who 
spoil  milk,  eggs  and  butter  in  farmyards.  Dr.  Luther  said: 
"I  should  have  compassion  on  these  witches;  I  would  burn  all 
of  them.  We  read  in  the  old  law  that  the  priests  threw  the  first 
stone  at  such  malefactors.  'Tis  said  this  stolen  butter  turns 
rancid,  and  falls  to  the  ground  when  anyone  goes  to  eat  it." 

Dr.  Luther  discoursed  at  length  concerning  witchcraft  and 
charms.  He  said  that  his  mother  had  to  undergo  infinite  an- 
noyance from  one  of  her  neighbors,  who  was  a  witch,  and  wliom 
she  was  fain  to  conciliate  with  all  sorts  of  attentions;  for  this 
witch  could  throw  a  charm  upon  children,  which  made  them  cry 
themselves  to  death.  A  pastor  having  punished  her  for  some 
knavery,  she  cast  a  spell  upon  liim  by  means  of  some  earth 
upon  which  he  had  walked  and  which  she  bewitched.    The  poor 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  43 

man  hereupon  fell  sick  of  a  malady  which  no  remedy   could 
remove,  and  shortly  afterwards  died. 

****** 

Of  course,  you  have  read  Boswell's  Johnson,  or  Macaulay's 
famous  Essay,  but  here  is  an  anecdote  which  illustrates  the 
learned  Doctor  and  his  times  so  perfectly  that  it  is  worth  pres- 
ervation.    It  is  found  in  Rae's  "Wilkes,  Sheridan  and  Fox." 

"The  King's  early  aversion  to  Fox  was  intensified  after  the 
latter  became  the  champion  of  Dissenters.  In  those  days  the 
intolerance  of  Churchmen  towards  their  fellow-Protestants,  who 
conscientiously  differed  from  them  in  particular  opinions,  was 
alike  extraordinary  and  discreditable.  It  was  glorified  in  as  a 
species  of  loyalty.  The  forms  under  which  it  appeared  were 
innumerable.  This  is  one  witnessed  by  Lord  Eldon  during  a 
visit  to  Oxford:  'I  had  a  walk  in  New  Inn  Hall  garden,  with 
Dr.  Johnson,  Sir  Robert  Chambers,  and  some  other  gentlemen. 
Sir  Robert  was  gathering  snails,  and  throwing  them  over  the 
wall  into  his  neighbor's  garden.  The  Doctor  reproached  him 
very  roughly,  and  stated  to  him  that  this  was  unmannerly  and 
unneighborly.  'Sir,'  said  Sir  Robert,  'my  neighbor  is  a  Dis- 
senter.' 'Oh,'  said  the  Doctor,  'if  so,  Chambers,  toss  away,  toss 
away,  as  hard  as  you  can.'  " 

****** 

Sometimes  when  you  would  like  to  study  a  really  great 
speech — you  who  see  so  many  in  print  that  are  not  great — 
turn  to  Henry  Grattan's  speech  on  Tithes.  Few  English  ora- 
tions equal  this  and  none  surpass  it  in  the  perfect  mastering 
of  the  subject.  Grattan  was  gifted  with  a  higher  order  of  in- 
tellect, culture  and  oratory  than  any  of  the  Irish  tribunes,  and 
in  character  he  soared  above  them  all.  Unselfish,  consecrated 
to  his  country,  he  was  altogether  a  higher  type  than  Curran, 
and  more  heroic  than  O'Connell. 

For  many  years  he  was  prince  of  orators  in  the  British  Par- 
liament, after  having  been  the  bright  particular  star  of  the 
Parliament  of  Ireland. 

This  much,  the  histories  will  tell  you;  but  if  you  would 
know  how  it  all  ended,  you  must  go  down  the  lane  to  Memoirs. 

"The  old  statesman  lingered  upon  the  stage  too  long,  and 
one  night  when  he  rose  in  his  place  and  addressed  'Mr.  Speaker!' 
he  rambled  in  his  speech,  grew  tiresome,  and  lost  the  ear  of  the 
House.  Members  began  to  cough.  In  Parliament  the  tiresome 
orator  is  'coughed  down.' 

"As  the  coughing  grew  in  volume,  old  Grattan  stopped.  His 
face  fell  and  his  voice  changed.  He  said  to  the  Speaker,  'I  be- 
lieve, sir,  they  are  right,'  and  sat  down." 

We  find  this  touching  incident  in  Crabbe  Robinson's  "Diary." 


Not  Quite 


I^EVER  shall  this  pen,  or  any  other,  put  into  words  the  full 
■'•  ^  glory  of  the  message. 

No  artist's  brush  ever  conveyed  to  canvass  the  painter's  fair- 
est dream. 

No  chisel  ever  made  perfect  in  marble  the  vision  as  it  ap- 
peared to  the  sculptor's  brain. 

Musician! — were  they  not  beyond  the  power  of  your  eager 
hands  to  catch  and  hold — those  diviner  harmonies  that  lifted 
your  soul  to  the  seventh  heaven? 

Orator! — did  tongue  or  spoken  word  ever  give  to  the  en- 
tranced hearer  those  strains  of  unuttered  eloquence  that  stirred 
your  very  soul  in  the  solitude  of  your  room  in  the  hush  of  the 
night? 

Not  quite  is  the  Work  equal  to  the  Conception:  always  there 
remains  something  unattainable. 

Strive  as  we  may,  something  escapes  us. 

One  day  a  friend  of  Thorwalsden,  dropping  into  the  Sculp- 
tor's studio,  found  him  sad.  Asked  what  was  the  cause  of  his 
melancholy,  Thorwalsden  replied: 

"My  genius  is  gone.  Heretofore,  when  I  tried  to  work  out 
a  Conception,  the  statue  was  never  up  to  the  Ideal.  But  now 
this  statue  of  Christ,  which  I  have  just  finished,  satisfies  me, 
and  I  know  that  I  shall  never  have  another  great  Conception." 

Oh,  if  it  were  but  possible  for  one  to  dwell  alivays  in  those 
upper  regions  of  pure  thoughts  and  noble  aspirations! 

I  care  nothing  for  Butler's  Analogy,  nor  any  other  ponder- 
ous book  which  strives  to  prove,  by  external  evidence,  that  there 
is  a  God. 

What  better  proof  do  I  want  that  somewhere,  in  some  form, 
there  lives  a  power  which  sends  thrills  of  happiness  through  me 
— emotions  that  shake  every  fibre  of  my  being,  as  the  breezes 
shake  the  aspen  leaves — when  I  have  done  a  good  deed? 

Don't  try,  from  without,  to  convince  me  that  there  is  a 
Supreme  Being,  of  some  sort,  who  will  in  some  mysterious  waj'' 
sift  the  Right  from  the  Wrong,  the  True  from  the  False. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  outside  order  of  things  that  will 
make  out  your  case.  You  are  born  into  the  world,  as  other 
animals  are;  you  live  or  you  die,  as  other  animals  live  or  die; 
and  Nature — remorseless,  inscrutable,  irresistible  monster  that 

(44) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  45 

she  is! — takes  no  more  account  of  the  best  man  on  earth  than 
of  the  worst. 

Nature  executes  the  Law;  woe  unto  you  if  you  violate  it! 

Nature  has  no  ear  for  the  plea  of  the  weak,  no  heart  to  be 
touched  by  human  misery. 

Nature  slays  a  million  human  beings  with  Famine,  Pesti- 
lence, Earthquakes,  Sea-storms,  freezing  blasts  of  winter — as 
remorselessly  as  she  kills  germs,  flies  and  gnats. 

Listen : 

A  few  years  ago,  a  little  girl  lay  in  the  agonies  of  menin- 
gitis at  Bellevue  Hospital,  New  York. 

The  doctor  was  so  keenly  anxious  about  her,  so  bravely  de- 
voted to  his  task  of  saving  her  life  if  he  could,  that  he  hung 
over  her  bedside  night  and  day. 

At  length,  the  crisis  was  safely  met  and  the  little  girl  com- 
menced her  journey  back  to  health. 

Overflowing  with  gratitude  and  joy,  the  little  thing  clasped 
her  arms  about  the  doctor's  neck  and  kissed  him. 

And  the  embrace  cost  him  his  life. 

For  in  her  impulsive  hug,  her  almost  hysterical  delight,  the 
little  girl's  finger-nail  gave  the  doctor  a  slight  scratch  on  the 
neck. 

Blood-poisoning  set  in,  and,  as  the  little  girl  came  back  to 
light  and  life,  the  heroic  doctor  was  on  his  way  down  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death. 

If  Nature  had  a  heart  that  was  softer  than  granite,  would 
she  ever  let  a  thing  like  that  come  to  pass? 

Such  things  happen  at  every  tick  of  the  clock. 

Nature  doesn't  care. 

Nature  draws  no  distinction  between  the  assassin  and  his 
victim;  none  between  the  beggar  and  the  millionaire;  none  be- 
tween the  negro  rapist  and  the  white  girl  struggling,  frantically 
and  vainly,  to  escape  a  fate  worse  than  death. 

Nature  looks  on,  with  eyes  that  see  nothing;  Nature  works 
on,  with  ears  that  hear  nothing. 

Therefore,  you  search  in  vain  the  outside  world  to  find  your 
proofs  that  a  Supreme  Being,  of  Beneficent  intent,  exists. 

If  you  cannot  prove  it  from  within,  you  are  lost. 

And  if  you  cannot  prove  it  by  that  feeling  of  content,  of 
joy,  of  happiness  that  glows  within  you  after  you  have  said  the 
Good  Word,  after  you  have  done  the  Good  Deed — you  cannot 
prove  it  at  all. 

No  matter  how  much  Faith  you  may  have,  you  haven't  any 
other  proof. 

Not  quite  can  the  painter's  art  transfer  to  canvas  the  beauti- 
ful scene  which  dwells  in  his  mind. 


46  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

Then,  whence  came  that  beauty  which  is  too  perfect  to  be 
reproduced  by  human  skill? 

Not  quite  can  the  great  composer  put  into  melodious  notes 
those  harmonies  that  enrapture  his  soul. 

Then,  whence  came  those  harmonies,  those  celestial  airs  which 
inspired,  yet  somewhat  eluded,  the  divine  genius  of  Handel  and 
Beethoven  and  Schubert  and  Mozart? 

Not  quite  can  the  speaker  or  writer  catch  and  cage,  in  spoken 
or  written  word,  those  sublime  thoughts  which  came  into  his 
solitude,  when  all  the  outer  world  was  still,  and  lifted  his  soul 
into  a  higher,  purer,  lovelier,  diviner  world. 

Then,  whence  came  those  thoughts  which  carried  him  to  the 
mountain  top,  and  bade  him  look  down  upon  all  the  world  below? 

From  within  comes  the  conviction  that  there  must  be  sonie- 
where  a  loftier  life  that  we  poor,  imperfect  creatures  can  live; 
and  that  somewhere  there  is  perfect  Beauty,  perfect  Melody, 
perfect  Truth,  and  perfect  Good. 

From  some  better  world,  must  come  these  better  things. 

Some  day,  it  may  be  that  the  Angel  of  Beauty,  which  has 
so  long  inspired  the  artist,  will  whisper  to  him,  "Put  the  brush 
away.  Turn  the  canvas  to  the  wall.  Come  with  me."  And  that 
which  is  best  in  him  will  be  glad  to  go. 

Some  day,  it  may  be  that  the  Spirit  of  Music,  which  has 
been  the  companion  soul  of  the  composer,  will  say,  "Sister  spirit! 
Come  away."  And  the  twin  souls  will  seek  together  the  world 
in  which  there  is  no  discordant  sound. 

Some  night,  the  radiant  thought  that  visits  me  here  in  my 
solitude,  may  say  to  me: 

"It  is  finished — Come."  And  that  which  is  best  in  me  will 
be  glad  to  go. 


How  I  Game  to  Write  a  Life 
of  Napoleon 

The  Hon.  John  Lawson  Burnett  of  Gadsden,  Ala.,  has  for 
several  terms  represented  the  Seventh  District  in  Congress.  He 
is  a  Democrat.  _         , ,  ,         , . 

The  month  of  August,  1907,  found  Mr.  Burnett  trav^^mrn 
Europe.  From  London,  England,  under  date  of  August  20  the 
Alabama  Congressman  wrote  a  letter  to  the  editor  of  the  Gadsden 
Daily  Times-News.  mi      u 

After  telling  of  Hamburg,  Bremen,  Rotterdam,  The  Hague, 
and  Antwerp,  Mr.  Burnett  proceeds  as  follows: 

"From  Antwerp  we  went  to  Brussels,  the  beautiful  capital 
of  Belgium,  where  we  stayed  a  couple  of  days.  Near  here  the 
battle  of  Waterloo,  ivhich  sealed  the  destiny  of  Napoleon  was 
fought.  This  brings  up  another  school  boy  speech  that  1  used 
to  recite : 

"  'There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night. 

And  Belgium's  capital  was  gathered  there,'  etc. 

"This  was  the  ball  which  luas  going  on  at  Brussels  when  the 
battle  began  which  sent  Napoleon  an  exile  to  St.  Helena,  and 
changed  the  whole  history  of  Europe.    We  visited  the  celebrated 
battlefield.    A  magnificent  harvest  of  wheat  was  being  gathered 
in  the  very  fields  which  were  watered  by  the  best  blood  of  Eu- 
rope     The  English  have  erected  an  immense  monument  there, 
capped  by  a  large  figure  of  the  BHtish  lion.     This  is  ascended 
by  226  steps.    You  know  I  am  fat  and  short-winded,  and  I  started 
up,  having  no  idea  of  going  to  the  top.    But  the  scene  was  so 
inspiring,  and  the  air  so  exhilarating  that  I  kept  on  till  1  got 
to  the  top     As  I  stood  there  and  gazed  over  the  ground  lohich 
once  resounded  to  the  tramp  of  the  greatest  armies  that  Europe 
ever  saw,  I  could  but  join  in  the  question  asked  by  Tom  Watson 
of  Georgia,  'What  would  have  happened  if  Napoleon  had  won/ 
"By  the  way,  that  reminds  me  that  I  went  into  a  book  store 
in  Paris  the  other  day  and  asked  for  the  best  history  of  Napo- 
leon which  they  had  in  English,  and  they  handed  me  Tom  Wat- 
son's  I  luas  rather  proud  of  this  compliment  to  our  distinguished 
Southern  author,  for,  although  I  do  not  agree  with  Mr.  Watson 
in  some  things,  I  regard  him  as  one  of  the  best  writers  m  America. 

(47) 


48  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

But  this  is  another  digression.  I  vicked  up  a  few  gravels  from 
Waterloo  because  I  had  just  received  a  letter  Jrom  a  young  lady 
in  my  district,  asking  me  to  bring  her  a  pebble  from  the  ocean 
or  some  other  little  souvenir  of  my  trip  to  Europe.  So  I  thought 
she  might  appreciate  one  of  these. 

"From  Brussels  we  went  to  Paris,  the  most  immortal  city  in 
the  ivorld.    Here  I  will  leave  you  till  next  iveek.     Your  friend, 

"JOHN  L.  BURNETT." 

— Extract  from  published  letter  of  Congressman  John  L.  Bur- 
nett, of  Gadsden,  Alabama.  Date  August  20,  1907.  London, 
England. 

npHE  prolific  novelist,  F.  Marion  Crawford,  came  to  Augusta, 
Georgia,  some  years  ago,  and  lectured  on  the  subject,  "How 
I  came  to  write  'Mr.  Isaacs.'  "  By  the  audience,  it  was  considered 
a  mighty  poor  lecture.  Not  many  present  had  ever  heard  of 
"Mr.  Isaacs,"  and  even  these  few  cared  nothing  about  how 
Mr.  Crawford  came  to  write  the  book.  The  novel,  to  them, 
was  just  a  novel,  and  it  was  nothing  more.  Therefore,  when 
Mr.  Crawford  spent  an  hour  regaling  the  house  with  an  account 
of  the  way  in  which  "Mr.  Isaacs"  happened  to  happen,  his 
hearers  were  dreadfully  bored.  Since  that  time  Augusta,  Georgia, 
has  called  for  lecturers  from  all  quarters  of  the  earth,  but  she 
has  never  wanted  any  more  of  F.  Marion  Crawford.  Once  was 
a  plenty. 

It  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  striking  proof  of  how  a  man 
can  make  a  huge  mistake  about  his  own  rating,  or  the  rating  of 
his  books,  that  so  sensible  a  person  as  F.  Marion  Crawford  should 
have  assumed  that  an  average  lecture-hall  audience  would  care 
two  straws  about  how  he  came  to  write  "Mr.  Isaacs." 

If  it  had  been  Chales  Reade,  explaining  how  he  came  to  write 
"The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,"  that  would  have  made  a  dif- 
erence. 

Of  course,  I  ought  to  take  warning  by  what  happened  to 
F.  Marion — but  who  pays  any  heed  to  warnings?  Does  the 
burnt  child  dread  the  fire  until  after  he  gets  blistered?  No,  in- 
deed. Each  of  us  quits  playing  with  edged  tools  after  we  get 
cut — not  before. 

The  negro  who  tearfully  assured  his  boss  that  he  had  been 
"sorry  'bout  stealing  dem  chickens — -eber  since  I  got  cotched," 
came  much  nearer  a  universal  truth  than  he  could  have  supposed. 

So,  with  reckless  disregard  of  what  befell  F.  Marion  Craw- 
ford, when  he  took  it  into  his  head  that  the  people  of  Augusta 
would  reflect  cheerfully  over  the  entrance  fee  of  one  dollar  apiece 
when  they  were  given,  in  return,  a  full  explanation  of  how  a 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES 


49 


novelist  came  to  write  a  novel — I  am  going  to  stumble  headlong 
into  the  same  mistake;  after  which  I  will  know  better  than  to 
do  it  again. 

The  one  decided  advantage  which  I   have  over  F.  Marion 
Crawford,  in  presuming  to  tell  how  one  of  my  books  came  to 


"WHEN     HE     WROTE     PRIZE     ESSAYS.     WHICH     DID     NOT     TAKE     PRIZES, 
*      *      *      I     WAS    IN    SYMPATHY     WITH     HIM." 

be  written,  is  that  no  one  has  to  pay  a  dollar  to  read  or  listen. 
It  seems  to  me  that  there  never  was  a  time  when  Napoleon 
was  not  a  part  of  my  life  and  my  thought.  Before  I  knew  any- 
thing of  George  Washington,  I  knew  as  much  of  Bonaparte  as 
the  Reverend  John  S.  C.  Abbott  could  tell  me.  At  the  time  I 
first  read  the  bulky  volumes  of  the  hero-worshiping  author, 
the  books  were  almost  as  heavy  as  I  was;  and  I  knew  no  better 
than  to  devour  that  marvelous  romance,  with  all  of  a  boy's  eager 
delight  and  unquestioning   faith.     The   Reverend   Mr.   Abbott 


50  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

may  have  staggered  the  wise,  but  he  did  not  stagger  me.  I 
believed  it  all.  Had  another  boy,  not  appreciably  larger  than  my- 
self, scouted  the  unalloyed  goodness  of  Napoleon,  the  unsullied 
virtue  of  Josephine,  and  the  unrelieved  depravity  of  Napoleon's 
foes,  there  would  have  ensued  immediately  a  small  but  interest- 
ing case  of  assault  and  battery. 

The  day  when  my  grandfather  gave  me  the  Abbott  volumes 
was  an  epoch  in  my  life.  I  was  thrilled  with  joy  and  pride. 
How  easily  I  could  paint  the  picture  of  that  little  incident  if 
I  were  an  artist.  My  grandfather — tall,  venerable,  imposing, 
stricken  already  with  palsy,  and  muttering  something  to  me  as 
he  handed  me  down  the  books  from  the  tall,  yellow  desk,  sur- 
mounted by  book  shelves,  earnestly  muttering  and  mumbling 
words  which  I  tried  my  best  to  understand,  but  could  not. 

Leaning  heavily  upon  his  silver-headed  cane,  he  looked 
steadily  down  at  me,  apparently  repeating  time  after  time  what 
he  wished  to  say,  until  I  glanced  timidly  toward  my  grandmother, 
who  sat  quietly  knitting  by  the  fireside;  and  she  came  to  my 
relief  by  telling  me  what  my  grandfather  had  said.  How  the 
scene  all  comes  back,  clear  in  every  detail,  though  the  mists  of 
forty-one  years  have  gathered  about  it.  I  then  was  only  nine 
years  old,  "going  on  ten." 

Not  a  man  of  many  books  was  my  grandfather.  A  slave- 
holder of  the  old  Southern  regime,  his  energies  had  gone  out 
to  practical  affairs,  and  his  heart  was  set  upon  his  broad  acres, 
well  filled  barns,  his  flock,  his  herds,  his  big,  fat  mules,  his  well 
clothed,  well  fed,  well  housed,  earnestly  worked  slaves.  He  had 
fought  the  battle  of  life  in  the  neighborhood,  where  his  ancestors, 
from  the  earliest  Colonial  times,  had  fought  it;  and  he  had  won 
it,  even  as  they  had  done.  Not  greatly  ambitious,  they  were 
satisfied  if  they  kept  "even  with  the  world,"  and  abreast  of  their 
prosperous  neighbors;  and  this  meant  that  they  owned  good 
farms,  a  comfortable  supply  of  negroes  and  other  chattels,  owed 
money  to  nobody  and  could  lend  a  friend  a  few  hundred  dollars 
now  and  then,  or  lose  that  much,  "without  feeling  it,"  on  a 
horse  race,  a  cock  fight,  or  a  friendly  game  of  cards. 

In  the  book  called  "Bethany,"  I  endeavored  to  picture  this 
old  plantation  life,  just  as  it  was.  Never  on  earth  did  negroes 
talk  as  those  elegant  colored  gentlemen  and  ladies  hold  forth 
in  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  or  Opie  Reed's  "My  Young  Master." 
The  negro  there  pictured,  bears  the  same  resemblance  to  the 
real  negro  that  the  Indian  of  Cooper's  novels  bears  to  the  real 
Indian.  Even  Joel  Chandler  Harris  and  Thomas  Nelson  Page 
have  looked  from  the  very  best  point  of  view  upon  the  very 
best  type  of  the  race,  until  they  have  evolved  an  ethereal  slave 
who  was  all  kindness,  intelligence,  fidelity,  gratitude,  humor,  hu- 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES 


51 


mility,  and  pathetic  fondness  for  his  white  master.  No  such 
negro  ever  lived.  Folks  of  that  type  may  be  plentiful  in  heaven; 
they  do  not  exist  on  earth. 

My  grandfather  prided  himself  on  the  fine  appearance  of 
his  slaves.  They  were  treated  well,  upon  the  same  principle 
that  the  horses  were  amply  fed.  It  was  to  his  interest  to  do 
it  and  he  did  it.  None  of  them  was  neglected  in  sickness,  or 
old  age;  none  was  severely  whipped;  all  were  made  to  do  a  fair 
day's  work;  and  all  of  them  were  better  fed,  better  clothed  and 


NAPOLEON 


better  housed  than  they  have  ever  been  since.  The  overseer 
punished  no  slave  without  my  grandfather's  approval,  and  that 
was  rarely  given.  There  was  no  occasion  for  barbarity,  and 
there  was  none.  "Old  Marster"  was  feared,  honored  and  liked 
by  every  negro  on  the  place.  In  the  eyes  of  them  all,  he  was 
a  greater  man  than  the  President.  His  word  was  law.  There  was 
no  feverish  hurry  about  that  old  plantation.  The  clock  did  not 
tick  more  regularly  on  the  mantel  than  did  the  workmen  move 
about  their  tasks.  All  was  steady,  all  was  quiet,  all  was  regular. 
Day  followed  day  with  respectable  monotony;  and  each  found 
its  task  done  in  order,  without  haste  and  without  rest.  You 
might  have  set  your  watch  by  the  blowing  of  the  dinner  horn 
at  "Squire  Long-Tom  Watson's."    The  very  mules  knew  when 


52  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

it  ought  to  blow,  and  had  it  not  blown  at  the  proper  time,  there 
would  have  been  the  indignant  bray  (whicker)  of  protest  which 
the  faithful  creature  gives  when  the  time  to  "take  out"  arrives, 
and  no  signal  from  horn  or  bell  is  heard. 

Through  the  dim  distance  between  now  and  then — through 
the  mists  of  the  forty-one  years — I  see  it  all  clearly;  I  hear  it 
all  distinctly.  The  old  farm  hangs  like  a  picture  on  the  walls 
of  the  Past,  and  I  see  the  overseer  on  his  horse,  the  slaves  going 
to  work,  the  fat,  sleek  mules  going  down  the  long  furrow,  the 
great  oxen  drawing  the  wagon;  the  Old  Marster  coming  slowly, 
leaning  on  his  cane,  to  enter  the  buggy  for  his  daily  drive  to 
town.  The  patter  of  the  feet  of  the  sheep  on  the  leaves  under 
the  big  trees  is  in  my  ears;  and  from  the  meadow  by  the  creek 
comes  the  tinkle  of  the  cowbell.  The  blue  jay  is  still  at  his  old 
tricks  in  the  big  oaks,  and  his  yodle  comes  just  in  time  to  re- 
move the  doubt  that  it  is  a  hawk  that  sounded  his  strident 
scream.  The  pigeons  whirl  'twixt  me  and  the  sun,  as  they  did 
in  the  olden  time;  and  the  song  of  the  mocking-bird  misses  no 
moonlight  night  of  spring.  Sir  Crow  goes  flopping  along  the 
distant  cornfields,  just  as  he  used  to  do;  and  the  whistle  of  the 
partridge  still  calls  for  "Bob  White."  And  when  it  all  comes 
back  to  me,  I  think  that  life  in  the  South  can  never  be  again 
what  it  was  in  1860;  and  that  had  the  Abolitionists  known  the 
facts,  they  would  have  been  content  to  go  about  Emancipation 
in  the  same  spirit  that  actuated  their  brethren  in  England. 

The  day  comes  when  my  grandfather  passes  away,  just  after 
the  Civil  War  was  well  over;  and  he  never  knew  that  the  old 
regime  was  gone.  "Old  Marster"  was  laid  out  in  the  parlor,  and 
the  slaves,  not  knowing  that  they  were  free,  came  up  to  "the 
big  house,"  crept  in  on  tip-toe,  took  a  last  look  at  the  pallid 
face,  and  stole  away,  awe-struck — and  talking  very  low.  I  was 
there  and  listened  in  terror  to  the  solemn  funeral  sermon  which 
was  preached  in  the  parlor;  and  I  crouched  close  to  my  father, 
not  daring  to  speak  to  him,  for  he  was  in  a  passion  of  tears,  his 
stalwart  frame  bent,  and  shaken  with  sobs. 

Then  came  the  day  when  all  the  slaves  were  called  up  to 
"the  big  house,"  to  be  told  that  they  were  free.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  they  had  heard  of  it.  The  rumor  had  circulated;  the 
fact  was  fairly  known;  but  as  yet  it  had  not  been  formally  an- 
nounced by  "the  boss."  In  a  few  words,  awkwardly  enough,  no 
doubt,  my  father  spoke  to  the  assembled  negroes,  telling  them 
that  they  were  free.  Whatever  they  understood  it  to  mean,  he 
knew  well  enough  what  it  meant  to  him.  It  was  a  loss  of  some 
sixty  thousand  dollars,  the  end  of  a  system  in  which  he  had  been 
reared,  and  a  leap  in  the  dark  towards  a  new  order  of  which 
he  knew  nothing.    It  was  very  hard.    He  had  not  been  responsible 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES 


53 


for  the  institution  of  slavery  which,  for  political  and  selfish 
reasons,  all  sections  of  the  Union  had  once  supported,  and  which, 
for  political  and  selfish  reasons,  had  now  been  swept  away,  after 
four  years  of  ruinous  Civil  War.  He  had  found  it  here  just  as 
he  had  found  other  institutions,  and  had  considered  slavery  as 
he  considered  taxes,  penitentiaries,  government  distilleries  and 
Congressional  legislation — things  established  and  not  to  be  ques- 


■WHEN    HE    SNATCHED    THE    COLORS    AT 

LODI.      »      *      •      AND   WON   THE 

TRIUMPH." 


tioned.  Being  just  an  average  man,  my  father  felt  the  blow 
which  swept  away  his  fortune;  and  his  talk  to  the  emancipated 
negroes  had  none  of  the  high-flown  sentiment  which  such  an 
orator  as  Gladstone  indulged  in,  after  he  had  pocketed  the  enorm- 
ous sum  which  England  paid  him  for  his  father's  former  slaves. 
Emancipation  having  been  announced  one  day,  not  a  negro 
remained  on  the  place  the  next.  The  fine  old  homestead  was 
deserted.  Every  house  in  ''the  quarter"  was  empty.  The  first 
impulse  of  freedom  had  carried  the  last  one  of  the  blacks  to 
town.    In  a  short  while  they  got  tired  and  hungry;  some  came 


54  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

back,  some  settled  on  other  places,  and  the  old  place  was  never 
the  same  again. 

Years  came  and  went;  the  new  system  and  my  father  never 
got  on  well  together.  Losses  followed  losses.  Cotton  fell  in 
price  with  ruinous  tumbles.  Why?  Well,  I  mustn't  go  into 
that.  It  would  be  venturing  upon  the  hot  ashes  of  political  dis- 
pute. I  only  dare  to  mention  the  fact  that  the  men,  who  finance 
the  world  were  destroying  the  paper  currency  by  the  hundred 
millions,  and  that  as  the  volume  of  money  became  less,  the  price 
of  cotton  became  less. 

At  last  came  the  "Panic  of  1873,"  and  when  the  smoke 
cleared  from  that  financial  Waterloo,  my  father  was  one  of 
those  who  was  stretched  upon  the  field. 

Let  the  ardently  ambitious  son  struggle  ever  so  hard  to  hold 
his  place  at  college,  he  could  not  do  it.  In  a  few  months  the 
effort  had  to  be  given  up.  With  heavy  heart,  with  suffering 
which  no  one  else  saw,  he  turned  away  from  a  chosen  course, 
closed  the  books,  quit  the  classes,  and  went  forth  into  the  world, 
at  eighteen,  to  make  his  own  way.  Perhaps  he  could  earn  money 
by  teaching  a  school,  and  thus  go  back  to  college!  So  he  hoped, 
but  it  could  never  be  done! 

A  country  school  teacher,  a  lawyer  of  modest  beginnings,  a 
hard  worker  from  my  youth  up,  I  had,  in  1895,  reached  middle 
life,  and  was  at  length  able  to  indulge  a  life-long  fondness  for 
literature.  Besides,  I  had  been  thrown  out  of  a  political  career, 
by  criminal  methods  which  I  was  powerless  to  withstand;  and  it 
was  necessary  to  find  some  congenial  labor  which  would  occupy 
the  time  and  divert  my  thoughts  from  what  I  then  considered 
an  overwhelming  misfortune. 

From  the  days  when  I  first  yielded  to  the  spell  of  the  im- 
aginary Napoleon  of  Abbott,  down  to  the  present  hour,  my 
craving  for  books  has  led  me  far  and  wide,  but  I  have  found 
no  subject  which  has  fascinated  me  so  constantly  as  that  of 
Napoleon.  My  estimate  of  him  was  varied,  but  my  interest 
never  flagged.  There  is  nothing  which  has  been  told  of  him, 
good  or  bad,  which  does  not  find  my  desire  to  know,  as  eager 
as  ever.  I  will  read  any  reasonable  amount  of  trashy  comment 
to  get  a  new  fact.  I  can  even  go  patiently  through  the  labyrinth 
of  lies  told  by  Fouche,  Barras,  Metternich  and  Talleyrand,  if 
I  light  upon  solid  ground,  now  and  then.  Even  such  liars  as 
they  are  compelled  by  human  infirmity  to  stumble  into  the  truth 
sometimes. 

No  soldier  that  followed  where  the  eagles  flew  ever  served 
longer  under  the  marvelous  leader  than  I  have  done.  To  repel 
the  slanderer,  to  refute  calumny,  to  restore  distorted  facts  to 
their  just  relation  to  the  man  and  the  times,  to  seek  the  fixed 


PR08E  MISCELLANIES 


55 


motive  which  underlay  isolated  deeds,  to  study  the  trend  of 
the  current  of  purpose,  regardless  of  the  bubbles  on  the  surface, 
the  whirling  eddies,  and  the  crooks  and  bends  in  the  onward 
rush  of  the  stream ;  to  view  the  man  and  his  work  as  a  whole ;  to 
note  what  the  European  systems  were  before  he  came,  and  after- 
wards; to  fathom  his  ideals,  and  learn  from  the  unfinished 
sketch  what  was  in  his  mind;  to  charge  up  to  his  account  every 
fault  and  vice  and  crime,  and   uhen  to  enter  upon  the  credit 


"DESERTED"    AT    ELBA 


side  of  the  ledger  the  unremitting    toil    and    the    magnificent 
achievement — this  has  been  my  rule  in  dealing  with  Napoleon. 

Partisans  of  aristocracy  in  all  countries  hated  him  and  lied 
about  him  while  he  lived.  They  hate  him  and  lie  about  him 
now.  Apparently  the  ruling  caste  in  Great  Britain  still  con- 
sider it  necessary  to  hire  pamphleteers  and  alleged  historians 
to  write  against  a  militant  Democrat  who  did  his  utmost  to  lay 
the  broad,  deep  foundations  of  good  government,  and  to  build 
uponj  it  a  temple  of  opportunity  whose  every  golden  door  should 
always  be  open,  and  from  within  whose  blessed  portals  should 
peal  forth  the  invitation,  "Whosoever  will,  let  him  come." 


56  PRO&E  MISCELLANIES 

Always  Napoleon  has  had  a  friend  in  me.  When  the  rich 
boys  made  fun  of  him  at  college,  my  own  little  fist  would  double 
up,  ready  to  help  him  fight.  When  he  wrote  prize  essays  which 
did  not  take  prizes,  and  composed  histories  which  publishers 
were  afraid  to  touch — I  was  in  sympathy  with  the  disappointed 
author.  When  he  went  hungry,  in  order  that  his  last  penny 
might  be  laid  out  in  buying  a  book,  I  understood.  When  he 
snatched  the  colors  at  Lodi  and  made  the  dash  for  the  bridge, 
and  won  the  triumph  which  first  put  it  into  his  head  that  he 
might  take  decisive  part  in  public  affairs,  I  intuitively  knew 
his  thought.  When  he  went  to  Egypt,  when  he  made  himself 
Consul,  when  he  put  away  Josephine,  when  he  took  the  Austrian 
wife,  when  he  yearned  for  a  son  who  might  inherit  his  splendor 
and  perpetuate  his  name,  when  he  over-stretched  the  bow,  went 
too  far,  took  counsel  of  his  pride,  and  fell,  as  Lucifer  fell — I 
sympathized  with  him  all  along,  for  it  was  all  so  human.  In 
his  reverses,  I  suffered.  When  his  bosom  friends  deserted  him, 
when  his  old  schoolmates  betrayed  him,  when  those  to  whom 
he  had  never  refused  a  favor,  turned  on  him  and  rended  him, 
I  was  in  grief,  even  as  he  was.  "Berthier,  don't  leave  me.  I 
have  need  of  consolation."  So  pleaded  vainly  the  prostrate 
Napoleon  at  Fontainebleau,  beseeching  Berthier  not  to  join  the 
deserters — Berthier,  his  bosom  friend,  his  pet,  the  favorite  upon 
whom  had  been  showered  every  gift  of  imperial  bounty. 

And  Waterloo — ah,  Waterloo  tears  me  all  to  pieces,  just  as 
Gettysburg  does.  The  positive  suffering  which  I  have  to  en- 
dure in  reading  of  those  two  calamities  to  the  human  race,  is 
something  you  could  not  imagine.  I  shrink  from  those  two 
subjects  as  a  heretic  must  have  shrunk  from  the  torture-cham- 
ber. The  heretic  knew  what  was  in  there;  and  his  flesh  must 
have  quivered  and  his  bones  ached,  as  he  approached  the  room 
of  horrors.  Even  so,  I  shun  Gettysburg  and  Waterloo,  the  two 
great  calamities  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 

As  a  boy  and  as  a  man,  my  heart  was  with  the  captive  at 
St  Helena.  When  the  English  Governor  nags  at  him,  when 
the  lion  is  teased  and  fretted  by  the  mean  and  tyrannical  keeper, 
when  they  won't  forward  the  books  sent  to  him  by  friends  in 
Europe,  when  they  detain  the  portrait  of  his  boy,  when  they 
open  the  letters  of  his  mother  and  sisters  and  brothers,  when  they 
refuse  to  allow  him  to  be  addressed  as  "Napoleon,"  when  they 
deny  him  the  comforts  necessary  to  his  age  and  infirmities, 
when  they  put  such  humiliating  conditions  upon  his  taking 
exercise  that  his  self-respect  will  not  allow  him  to  take  it,  when 
he  tried  to  interest  himself  in  gardening,  when  he  fights  all  his 
battles  over  again,  when  he  stands  out  upon  the  jutting  rock 
of  the  cliffs,  and  gazes  silently  toward  France — France  which 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES 


57 


will  one  day  bring  him  home  to  the  lordliest  tomb  in  all  this 
earth,  amid  the  thunder  of  cannon  and  the  trickle  of  a  nation's 
tears — he  never  fails  to  command  my  profound  interest  and 
admiration. 

I  felt,  as  a  boy,  what  I  know,  as  a  man,  that  he  was  crushed 
by  the  combination  of  Kings,  because  of  the  principles  for  which 
he  stood — those  principles  being  of  deadly  hostility  to  Absolutism, 
Divine  Right,  and  Class-rule. 


THE  TOMB  OF  NAPOLEON 


And  it  SO  happened  that,  in  my  mature  manhood,  I  recurred 
to  the  study  which  thrilled  me  in  my  youth.  In  the  volume 
which  embodies  the  result  of  the  reading  of  a  liftetime,  I  en- 
deavored to  tell  the  truth  about  Napoleon — not  as  a  partisan, 
but  as  a  student  who  has  never  tired  of  him,  and  who  considers 
him  the  most  terribly  attractive  figure  history  presents. 

Had  I  not  been  cast  out  of  Congress  by  the  ballot-box  stuffers; 
had  the  poor,  ignorant  negroes  not  been  voted  against  me,  ten 
and  twenty  times  apiece,  by  rich,  educated  white  gentlemen; 
had  dead  men  and  fictitious  men  not  been  registered,  in  order 
that  bribed  voters  might  vote  those  names,  I  might  have  re- 
mained in  public  life,  and  might  have  worked  out  my  well- 
considered  plan  for  a  grand  political  alliance  of  the  West  and 
South  against  New  England  class-rule. 

But,  since  the  casting  out  was  an  accomplished   fact,  the 


58  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

necessity  Avas  upon  the  Disinherited  to  do  something  better  than 
brooding  over  the  loss  of  the  Estate. 

Out  of  this  necessity  came  first,  "The  Story  of  France,"  and 
then  the  "Napoleon." 

So  it  is  that  adversity  may  be  good  for  us,  and  the  diet  of 
bitter  herbs  a  blessing  in  disguise. 


At  Fifty 


npHIS  is  Las  Olas — he  called  it  so  in  the  indulgence  of  that 
-*■  fondness  for  giving  pet  names  to  those  things  which  one 
especially  loves.  He  had  already  grown  old  when  he  chanced 
upon  this  spot^r-old  and  rich — and  the  joyousness  of  boyhood 
had  come  back  to  him,  and  he  found  pleasure  in  nature  and  his 
fellowman. 

Peace  to  his  memory!  he  was  as  golden-hearted  a  gentle- 
man as  ever  took  a  wage-earner  by  the  hand,  and  called  him 
brother. 

After  him  I  came;  and  after  me  will  come  another — and  so 
runs  the  world  away. 

A  narrow  spur  of  land,  stretching  out  from  inlet  to  inlet, 
forming  a  ribbon-like  island,  closed  in  upon  the  east  by  the 
Atlantic  and  on  the  west  by  the  streams  that  drain  the  Ever- 
glades— ^such  is  the  place.  Ages  and  ages  ago  the  wash  of  the 
ocean,  met  by  the  wash  of  the  rivers,  banked  up  a  ridge  of 
sand;  and  upon  this  sand  nature,  in  the  long  run  of  the  years, 
planted  a  jungle;  and  in  the  tangled  mazes  of  the  jungle  the 
deer  tramped  a  trail,  the  wildcat  found  a  lair,  the  raccoon 
made  a  home,  the  cougar  crouched  for  squirrels  and  the  rattle- 
snakes multiplied.  Water-fowl  of  all  kinds  whirled  and  screamed 
as  they  flew  from  feeding  ground  to  roosting  place;  and  the 
red-bird,  the  wren  and  the  mocker  were  never  more  plentiful 
or  musical  than  here. 

The  ships,  in  stately  procession,  pass  down  from  North  to 
South;  over  yonder  on  the  distant  horizon  you  can  see  the  smoke, 
or  the  masts,  of  those  that  follow  the  Gulf  Stream  from  the 
South  to  the  North.  Here,  on  the  one  hand,  is  the  great  world 
and  the  ocean ;  on  the  other,  the  inland  route — by  lake  and  sound 
and  river — where  traffic  flows  in  safer  ways  and  no  storm  besets 
the  sailor. 

Sit  here  on  the  wall  of  the  boathouse  and  gaze  southward. 
A  lovelier  stretch  of  water  the  world  does  not  hold — for  the  tide 
is  still  on  and  everything  is  water.  A  fringe  of  forest  bounding 
the  view  southward,  a  thread  of  brilliant  blue  marking  the  spear- 
thrust  which  the  ocean  makes  into  the  brown  bosom  of  the  river, 
the  tossing  foam  which  shows  where  the  billows  from  the  sea 
charge  home  upon  the  distant  "beach ;  and,  over  all,  the  mellow 
radiance  of  the  sunny  afternoon — for  the  tide  is  ebbing  now,  and 
the  sun  is  going  down. 

(59) 


60  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

All  that  the  ocean  could  do  this  time  has  been  done — for- 
evermore.  The  outgoing  currents  drove  back  the  lake  and  the 
river,  mounting  over  them  both,  marching  mile  after  mile  land- 
ward, conquering  mile  after  mile  of  reluctant  ground — but  the 
invader  could  go  so  far  and  no  farther,  and  he  is  now  sullenly 
drawing  back  into  the  sea. 

Great  monsters  of  the  deep  followed  the  invading  waters,  as 
they  rolled  towards  the  Everglades,  and  many  a  tragedy  that 
was  veiled  by  the  water  would  make  you  shudder  at  its  story, 
if  the  victim  could  speak  of  its  cruel  fate — but  the  monsters 
are  drifting  seaward  now,  and  their  battle  of  life  moves  to 
another  field. 

If  you  glance  over  the  island  you  will  see  that  the  air  is 
white  with  butterflies.  There  are  countless  thousands  of  them. 
They  do  not  fly  from  flower  to  flower,  some  one  way  and  some 
another,  hovering  aimlessly  or  lighting  idly  here  and  there — 
as  we  dwellers  of  the  up-country  have  been  accustomed  to  see 
them  do.  These  butterflies  are  drifting  all  in  one  direction;  these 
butterflies  have  no  mind  to  stop;  these  butterflies  neither  linger 
nor  hover  nor  dawdle;  these  butterflies  go  drifting  from  North 
to  South,  as  though  they  had  been  called  by  some  mysterious 
voice,  were  fastened  to  some  mysterious  purpose,  and  were  the 
helpless  instruments  of  some  mysterious  Fate. 

All  day  long  the^  have  been  flying  by,  over  the  jungle,  over 
the  beach,  over  the  lake,  over  the  Sound,  over  the  River — 
obeying  some  unheard  order,  following  some  unseen  leader,  an- 
swering some  unfathomable  design. 

I  wonder  what  it  will  all  be  like  when  the  last  tide  has  rolled 
backward  to  the  sea,  and  its  monsters  come  forth  no  more — for 
I  am  fifty  years  old,  and  it  is  the  time  of  the  ebbing  tide  and 
the  declining  sun,  with  me. 

I  wonder  whether  those  creations  of  the  mind,  which  some 
of  us  have  thought  important,  are,  after  all,  as  aimless  and  as 
fragile  and  as  ephemeral  as  these  butterflies  which  go  streaming 
past,  leaving  no  trace  on  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky — for  I  am  fifty, 
and  I  should  like  to  know  whether  all  this  effort  of  heart  and 
mind  leaves  the  world  brighter  and  better;  or  whether  we  are 
just  so  many  butterflies  which  Yesterady  did  not  know,  and 
Tomorrow  will  forget. 

There  is,  at  least,  this  much  at  Las  Olas,  and  at  fifty: 

If  one  needs  rest  from  turmoil  and  strife,  one  can  have  it. 
If  Hope  does  not  come  to  us  as  often  as  she  used  to  do,  Resig- 
nation comes  oftener,  and  stays  longer.  If  Disappointment 
brings  as  bitter  a  cup  as  she  ever  did,  we  have  at  least  learned 
that  we  need  not  drink  every  time  we  are  tempted  by  Desire. 
If  ambition  is  as  false  a  traitor  as  he  ever  was,  we  at  least  know 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  61 

that  Duty  is  a  certain  guide.  If  Fame  has  mocked  us  with 
treacherous  flatteries,  she  has  treated  us  no  worse  than  she  has 
treated  others;  and  we  can  at  least  quit  following  and  be  content 
with  the  approval  of  the  Voice  Within. 

If  the  road  has  been  rocky  and  the  march  has  been  marked 
with  the  blood  of  one's  feet,  we  can  at  least  reflect  that  the 
soldier  always  finds  it  so,  and  that  the  end  of  our  campaign  can- 
not be  far  away. 

Thus  after  all,  one  learns  philosophy  at  the  best  of  schools 
— Actual  Life. 

Who  would  be  a  drone  in  the  hive?  Who  would  be  a  de- 
serter from  the  fight?  Shall  trumpets  call  strong  men  to  the 
fields  of  human  effort,  and  I  play  dastard?  Shall  flags  float 
by,  with  brave  soldiers  marching  forth  to  the  service  of  Duty, 
and  I  play  the  Coward? 

Never,  by  the  splendor  of  God! 

Better  the  march  and  the  struggle,  and  the  heart-break  of 
failure,  than  the  selfish  refusal  to  try!  Better  the  battle,  the 
good  fight  and  the  defeat,  than  the  craven  lurking  in  the  rear. 

Of  all  the  worthless,  despicable  creatures  under  the  sun  is 
the  man  who  can  only  eat,  sleep,  propagate  and  rot;  the  venom- 
ous coward  who  hates  other  men  because  they  have  been  bold 
where  he  was  timid,  strong  where  he  was  weak,  loyal  where  he 
was  false. 

Of  all  things  contemptible,  is  the  man  who  follows,  with  the 
hungry  eyes  of  jealous  rage  and  hate,  the  bigger,  loftier  men 
who  marched  while  he  hung  back,  toiled  where  he  looked  on, 
fought  while  he  ran  away. 

Give  me  the  man  who  will  live  and  die  for  his  ideals,  who 
will  surrender  no  righteous  position  without  a  struggle,  who  will 
perish  rather  than  pollute  his  soul  by  apostasy  from  Right! 

Better- — a  thousand  times  better — the  tempest  and  the  ship- 
wreck with  such  a  creed,  than  inglorious  decay  at  the  wharf, 
with  any  other.  Better  a  Waterloo  and  a  glorious  death  in  the 
squares  of  the  Old  Guard,  than  worldly  pensions  and  honors 
for  base  betrayal  of  cause  and  country. 

So  I  thought  at  twenty.  So  I  think  at  fifty.  I  have  the 
scars  to  show  for  it.  And,  like  any  other  soldier  of  the  wars, 
I  am  proud  of  them. 

Let  the  tide  ebb — it  must  be  so ;  let  the  daylight  fade,  it  must 
be  so — but  this  much  any  poor  mortal  can  do,  and  should  do: 
.Hold  aloft,  to  the  very  last,  the  banner  of  your  creed;  fight  for 
it  as  long  as  you  can  stand;  and  when  you  go  down,  let  it  be 
possible  for  you  to  say  to  those  who  love  you:  "Lay  a  sword  on 
my  coffin;  for  I,  also,  was  a  soldier  in  the  great  struggle  for  hu- 
manity." 


Eccentricities  of  Nervous  People 

"VIT"  ASN'T  it  Schopenhauer,  the  German  philosopher,  who  said 
'*  that  the  mental  dullness  of  a  man  could  be  measured  by  the 
amount  of  noise  he  could  endure  without  protest?  Did  he  not 
practically  contend  that  nobody  but  a  very  stupid  person  could 
be  insensible  to  annoyance  of  dog-barking,  cock-crowing,  calf- 
lowing,  piano-thumping,  and  similar  afflictions? 

Possibly  the  old  philosopher  was  feeling  out  of  sorts  and 
cross,  when  he  went  to  the  extreme  above  mentioned.  Napoleon 
could  sleep  on  the  battlefield:  and  surely  Napoleon  was  not  a 
dull  man.  Burns  composed  his  best  poem  during  a  ride  in  a 
thunder-storm — and  in  Scotland  a  thunder-clap  makes  noise. 
Sir  Walter  Scott  wrote  his  best  books  while  workmen  of  all  kinds 
were  building  him  a  great,  new  house;  and  the  sound  of  hammer 
and  saw  and  chisel  is  generally  considered  a  tribulation. 

So  it  must  be,  that  the  suffering  from  noise  does  not  neces- 
sarily imply  lofty  intellect;  nor  does  the  fact  that  the  well-fed 
citizen  sleeps  soundly  all  night,  while  his  neighbor's  dog  is  im- 
partially saluting  each  star  in  the  heavens  with  the  same  monot- 
onous yelp,  raise  any  presumption  against  the  integrity  of  the 
mental  machine  of  said  somnolent  citizen. 

It  isn't  so  much  a  question  of  brains,  as  of  nerves. 

Julius  Caesar  could  not  hear  a  rooster  crow,  without  shudder- 
ing; but  it  isn't  every  fellow  w4io  shudders  when  the  rooster 
crows,  that  has  the  head  of  a  Caesar. 

DeQuincy  would  fall  into  an  agony  of  pain  when  the  pea- 
cock opened  up  in  tuneful  numbers;  but  it  isn't  every  objector 
to  pea-fowl  yells  that  could  write  "The  Household  Wreck,"  or 
"The  Flight  of  a  Tartar  Tribe." 

Carlyle,  when  in  Scotland,  fretted  and  fumed  because  the 
roosters  broke  upon  his  meditations;  and  in  London,  he  com- 
plained bitterly  of  the  piano  next  door;  but  it  isn't  every  one 
who  finds  fault  with  pianos  and  chickens  that  could  produce 
"Sartor  Resartus"  and  "The  French  Revolution." 

I  have  my  own  idea  about  a  man  who  is  not  at  all  put  out 
by  the  long-continued  lowing  of  a  calf,  or  a  cow;  but  I  dare 
not  express  that  opinion.  It  would  lose  me  the  good-will  of 
hundreds  of  people  who  no  more  mind  the  lowing  of  a  cow  than 
they  do  the  fifteen-minute  solo  of  the  factory  whistle,  or  the 
practice-lesson  of  a  boy  aspiring  to  a  place  in  the  brass  band. 

The  royal  stag  may  be  king  of  a  boundless  range  of  forest, 

(62) 


PRORE  MISCELLANIES  63 

but  he  is  powerless  to  escape  the  vermin  that  burrow  between  his 
horns — pestering  him  every  day  of  his  life.  Looking  out  upon 
the  waters  of  the  ocean,  you  will  see  the  great  sword-fish,  a  ter- 
ror of  the  deep,  spring  into  the  air  and  give  himself  a  convulsive 
shake;  he  is  trying  to  throw  off  the  tiny  fish,  which  are  to  him 
what  the  barnacles  are  to  a  ship. 

It  is  much  the  same  in  human  life.  While  Hercules  struggles 
with  the  monster,  the  little  crab  nibbles  his  toe.  The  small  things 
vex,  where  the  large  things  would  but  rouse  you  to  exertion.  Many 
trifling  annoyances,  coming  at  once,  or  in  quick  succession,  drive 
you  to  a  frenzy;  when,  if  they  had  all  been  concentrated  in  one 
trouble,  your  fortitude  would  have  steadied  the  boat. 

DeMorny,  the  half-brother  of  the  Emperor  Louis  Napoleon, 
was  a  very  great  man;  he  put  the  stupid  Louis  Napoleon  upon 
the  throne  and  kept  him  there  while  he  lived;  yet  with  all  his 
power,  DeMorny  did  not  know  how  to  escape  the  nuisance  of  a 
flute-player  whose  room  was  in  earshot  of  the  Duke's  palace. 

The  first  Napoleon  detested  and  dreaded  three  smaller  men 
— Fouche,  Talleyrand,  and  Bernadotte;  yet,  with  all  continental 
Europe  at  his  feet,  this  greatest  of  men  did  not  know  how  to  rid 
himself  of  three  deadly  enemies  who  were  apparently  in  his 
power. 

Similarly,  afflicted,  the  English  King,  Henry  the  Second,  cried 
out  in  a  burst  of  impotent  rage,  "Will  nobody  deliver  me  of  this 
pestiferous  Monk?" — and  three  zealous  courtiers  went  straight- 
way to  the  church  and  slew  the  Monk  with  their  swords;  where- 
upon Thomas  Becket,  the  factious  Monk,  becomes  "Saint 
Thomas  of  Canterbury";  and  the  proud  King  goes  penitentially 
to  the  tomb  and  gets  upon  his  knees,  lays  bare  his  royal  back, 
and  is  retributively  scourged  by  surviving  monks. 

So  it  seems  that,  in  striving  to  get  free  from  little  aggrava- 
tions, we  may  easily  run  into  big  troubles. 

The  antlered  stag  may  roam  ever  so  fast  and  far,  but  the 
parasite  still  burrows  into  his  head.  The  sword-fish  may  spring 
ever  so  often  and  so  high,  but,  in  spite  of  all  his  convulsive 
shakes,  some  of  the  tiny  fish  will  hang  on. 

So  with  us,  the  small  vexations  are  inseparable  from  life; 
and  perhaps  if  we  could  remove  this  one,  and  that  one,  and  the 
other  one,  we  might  become  intolerably  exacting;  and  we  might 
complain,  as  the  spoiled  Grecian  did,  when  a  crumpled  leaf,  on 
his  couch  of  roses,  broke  the  complete  sweetness  of  his  rest. 

Nothing  so  soon  unbalances  a  man  as  a  perpetual  annoy- 
ance, which  nags  at  him  every  day  of  his  life.  The  irritation 
will  become  a  serious  inroad  upon  the  comfort  to  which  he  is 
entitled  in  his  home. 

The  raindrop  wears  away  the  rock;  and  many  a  man  who 


64  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

ought  to  have  gone  joyously  to  take  his  place  in  the  march  and 
the  battle  of  important  effort,  has  been  worn  into  peevish,  in- 
active discontent  by  the  constant  drip  of  trivial  aggravations. 

That  mysterious  Wallenstein,  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  who 
was  almost  a  match  for  "the  Great  Adolphus"  himself,  was  un- 
ruffled while  cannon  boomed  and  swords  clashed,  but  he  could 
not  bear  the  rattle  of  a  spur,  dragging  at  the  heels  of  the  wearer. 
Nor  could  he  endure  the  barking  of  dogs.  To  have  peace  in  his 
home,  in  Prague,  he  bought  all  the  surrounding  property. 

The  philosopher  Kant  moved  away  from  a  pleasant  home, 
to  escape  the  nuisance  of  a  crowing  cock  on  the  adjoining  place. 

Rather  than  have  his  life  worried  out  of  him  by  pin-pricks 
and  flea-bites,  it  is  better  that  each  of  us  should  do  in  our  small 
way  what  Wallenstein  found  it  necessary  to  do.  If  we  cannot 
buy  a  place  big  enough  to  afford  a  quiet  center  for  our  study  or 
work,  we  can  do  what  Immanuel  Kant  did — move  out  and  let 
the  chicken  crow  to  the  fellow  who  doesn't  mind  it. 

Why  should  a  man  waste  his  strength  in  struggles  where  the 
game  isn't  worth  the  candle?  As  we  grow  in  wisdom,  we  hus- 
band our  resources  for  nobler  purpose. 

Consider  the  case  of  Daniel  Webster  and  the  rooster,  at  the 
Country  Fair. 

Who  was  grander  than  Daniel  Webster,  on  a  great  subject 
and  a  great  occasion?  No  man  that  ever  lived.  Yet  when  he 
attended  the  County  Fair  and  got  up  to  make  a  hum-drum 
speech,  the  big  rooster  in  one  of  the  coops  began  to  crow- — ^think- 
ing about  the  prize,  maybe— and  the  "god-like  Daniel"  gave  up 
the  unequal  contest.     No  speech  from  Webster  that  day. 

To  rise  in  the  Senate  and  hurl  Jovian  thunderbolts  at  Hayne 
or  Calhoun,  was  worth  his  while;  but  to  speak  at  a  County  Fair, 
against  a  noisy  and  self-assertive  rooster! — no  wonder  Webster 
gave  it  up,  and  sat  down. 


Dream  Children 


T  ONG  ago,  Charles  Lamb  wrote  an  essay  on  "Dream  Chil- 
^-^  dren."  He  had  known  what  it  was  to  be  tenderly  attached 
to  a  good  woman,  whom  he  could  not  wed.  Always  poor,  bur- 
dened ^vith  the  duty  of  caring  for  a  sister  who  was  more  or  less 
insane,  the  gentle  recluse  went  his  way,  in  mournful  resignation, 
leaving  his  lady-love  to  become  the  wife  of  another,  and  more 
fortunate,  man.  But  Lamb  never  escaped  "the  quiet  sense  of 
something  lost."  Affectionate  in  disposition,  upright  and  pure 
in  character,  the  domestic  circle  would  have  been  to  Charles 
Lamb  an  Eden  of  endless  bliss.  So  it  was  that,  in  his  later  years, 
he  brooded  over  what  "might  have  been";  called  around  his  knee 
the  children  of  his  fancy;  and  upon  these,  the  ethereal  creations 
of  his  brain,  bestowed  the  caresses  which  actual  children  never 
came  to  enjoy. 

In  the  imagination  of  Lamb,  the  dream  children  are  those 
that  are  longed  for;  or  those  that  should  have  come  and  did  not. 
But  these  are  not  the  only  ones  that  might  be  called  "Dream 
Children." 

Charles  Dickens  was  referring  to  the  other  class,  in  "Little 
Dorritt,"  when  Mr.  Meagles,  who  had  lost  one  of  his  daughters 
in  her  childhood,  speaks  of  the  dead  child,  as  growing  up  by  the 
side  of  her  surviving  sister. 

Yes,  the  children  which  should  have  come  and  did  not,  are 
Dream  Babies,  but  so,  also,  are  those  which  should  have  stayed 
with  us,  after  they  came — and  did  not. 

These  seemed  to  die,  and  to  the  world  they  are  dead — forever 
lost.  A  narrow  ridge  in  the  church-yard,  a  tablet,  with  a  name 
and  date — that  is  all.  But,  to  the  grief-racked  parents,  the  child 
is  not  altogether  dead.  In  that  Dreamland  which  is  as  much 
a  part  of  us  as  the  visible  world  itself,  the  child  lives!  it  comes 
back  to  us  now  and  then;  reminds  us  of  every  little  word  and 
caress;  and  wrings  our  hearts,  once  more,  with  infinite  pain. 

In  "Little  Dorritt,"  Charles  Dickens  fancies  that  the  dead 
child  grows  apace  with  its  sister,  becoming  taller  as  she  grows 
taller,  older  as  she  grows  older. 

It  is  not  so  at  all.  The  great  novelist,  whose  soul  sympa- 
thized with  every  living  creature,  made  one  of  his  few  mistakes, 
in  dealing  with  the  Dream  Children. 

They  do  not  change.  Time  halted  at  their  grave:  no  more 
could  he  take,  or  give.    What  they  were,  the  day  they  died,  they 

(65) 


66  PRO&E  MISCELLANIES 

remain.    Children  they  were,  when  Death  hushed  their  lips  and 
froze  their  little  hands, — children  they  are,  in  Dreamland. 

The  tracks  that  were  all  about  the  yard,  on  the  dreadful  day 
when  sickness  seized  her,  were  still  there  when  you  came  back 
from  the  funeral,^ — the  tracks  of  a  child  at  play:  and  while  the 
merciful  wind  and  rain  and  the  passing  of  other  feet,  soon  hid 
these  tiny  footprints,  the  tracks  that  she  would  now  make  if  she 
could  leave  the  borders  of  Dreamland,  would  still  fit  the  little 
shoes  that  are  laid  away. 

You  sometimes  hear  her  voice,  some  time  when  the  day  is 
done,  and  the  Spirit  of  Silence  has  locked  a  slumbering  world; 
and  the  voice  is  that  which  you  heard  when  she  climbed  upon 
your  knee,  and  laid  one  hand  to  one  cheek,  saying,  "This  side. 
Mama's,"  lending  the  other  to  your  kiss. 

No,  they  do  not  grow  up,  along  with  the  surviving  children, 
— no,  indeed!  Carved  upon  memory  by  the  stern  hand  of  Grief, 
their  little  figures  are  as  immortally  young,  as  the  marble  chil- 
dren following  the  motionless  procession  upon  a  Grecian  frieze. 

You  do  not  place  her,  in  your  fancy,  beside  the  young  people 
in  the  ball-room,  or  on  the  tennis  ground,  or  even  in  the  school. 
No:  she  is  too  young  to  be  there.  She  would  not  be  in  her  proper 
place.  Nor  is  she  apt  to  join  the  other  children,  even  of  her  own 
age,  in  the  morning,  or  at  mid-day. 

No:  she  comes  in  the  quiet,  melancholy  afternoon,  when  the 
shadows  are  growing  longer,  when  the  hurly-burly  of  the  day  is 
done.  Then,  if  there  should  be  any  little  children  playing  about 
in  the  yard,  or  lingering  on  the  lawn,  she  will  come. 

You  will  see  her  with  playmates  of  her  own  age;  you  may 
fancy  her  voice  mingling  with  theirs:  once  more,  comes  the 
holiest  and  sweetest  of  all  melodies,  her  laughter  of  the  years 
gone  by. 

Your  other  children  grow  up,  pass  out  of  the  home,  are 
swallowed  up  in  the  great  big  world.  But  the  Dream  Children 
never  leave  you. 

There  is  a  plaintive  Scotch  song  whose  burden  is  the  sweet- 
heart's answer  to  her  pleading  lover, 

"I  must  not  leave  the  old  folks  yet,  we'd  better  bide  a  wee." 

But  the  Dream  Children  are  yet  more  inseparable  from  the 
home  and  parental  love:  they  abide  with  you  evermore. 

To  the  living  we  sometimes  feel  like  saying,  "Oh  that  we 
could  keep  you  just  as  you  are, — always  a  child,  always  inno- 
cent, always  free  from  care  and  sin  and  suffering." 

The  Dream  Children  are  so — they  only.  They  never  pass  be- 
yond the  place  where  sleep  soothes  every  disappointment,  cures 
every  wound,  hushes  every  sob,  dries  every  tear. 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  67 

Eternally  young,  eternally  pure,  she  is  yours  yet, — a  child, 
as  she  was  the  day  you  closed  her  eyes. 

Upon  every  Christmas  Eve,  she  comes  into  the  stillness  of 
the  library;  and  she  hangs  her  little  stocking  up  in  the  fireplace 
just  as  she  used  to  do.  The  other  children  learned  the  secret 
of  Santa  Claus  long  ago;  and  they  quit  hanging  up  their  stock- 
ings on  Christmas  Eve.  But  she  never  learned  the  secret:  she 
will  never  learn  it,  now;  and  in  Dreamland  she  still  loves  Santa 
Claus.  So  it  is— she  comes  softly  into  the  library,  every  Christ- 
mas Eve,  and  hangs  up  the  little  stocking,  just  as  she  did  in 
those  days  when  you  did  not  know  how  much  soul-anguish  quiv- 
ered in  the  voice  that  was  heard  in  Ramah. 

In  you  and  in  me,  the  conflict  goes  on,  forever,  between 
the  evil  spirit  and  the  good.  Today  the  Evil  Genius  takes  pos- 
session of  us,  and  we  sin.  Then  the  good  angel  gains  the  upper 
hand,  and  we  repent  bitterly  what  we  did  yesterday- — and  we 
do  good  tomorrow.  When  the  Angel  of  our  better  self  is  with 
us,  the  sunshine  is  brighter,  the  song  of  the  bird  is  sweeter,  the 
faces  of  friends  reflect  our  happiness,  the  home  circle  glows  with 
joyous  animation,  and  our  souls  expand  to  embrace  all  mankind. 

When  the  Evil  Genius  comes,  it  is  another  world  that  we 
are  in;  and  we  are  different  beings.  The  malign  Pontiff  of  the 
invisible  papacy  has  put  all  nature  and  all  nations  under  a 
blighting  Interdict. 

Joy  flees,  laughter  dies  away,  the  East  wind  blows;  the 
clouds  are  leaden  and  low;  we  have  no  friends;  home  yields  no 
happiness;  life  is  not  worth  living. 

Who  has  not  experienced  this?  Happy  the  man  who  has 
not.  But  thrice  happy  the  man  who,  being  the  victim  of  such 
a  curse,  will  try,  and  try,  and  try  again,  to  break  the  spell  of 
this  tremendous  Excommunication. 

And  the  Dream  Children? 

They  also  dare  not  cross  the  dead-line  of  the  Interdict.  On 
the  dreadful  day  of  Excommunication,  they  also  avoid  us.  In 
the  death-struggles  of  fierce  and  ruthless  passions,  they  have  no 
place.  They  can  only  come  when  the  Evil  One  has  been  thrown 
out.  But  when  the  spell  has  passed,  when  the  heavens  smile 
again,  then  the  Lost  One  comes;  then  she  sits  upon  the  knee 
again;  then  her  head  nestles  against  the  breast  again;  and  once 
more  is  heard  the  old-time  music  of  her  voice,  as  she  puts  a 
little  hand  to  one  of  her  cheeks,  and  says,  "This  side,  Mama's." 
The  other  you  may  kiss — as  you  yield  to  the  infantile  imperial- 
ism, which  reserves  a  realm  sacred  to  her  mother. 


The  Oddities  of  the  Great 

TS  IT  a  fact,  that  men  of  genius  are  more  apt  to  be  eccentric 
-'-  than  average  mortals  who  are  not  so  gifted?  Or  is  it  that 
nobody  cares  to  notice  the  peculiarities  of  the  obscure,  while 
a  hero-worshiping  world  fastens  greedy  eyes  upon  the  small- 
est detail  which  illustrates  the  manner  of  man  that  a  genius 
happens  to  be? 

The  grouchy  old  Thomas  Carlyle  declared,  most  unreason- 
ably, that  Harriet  Martinau's  description  of  Daniel  Webster's 
manner  of  lounging  before  the  fireplace,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  was  worth  more  than  all  the  books  which  that  indus- 
trious blue-stocking  had  written,  on  history,  biography,  political 
economy,  and  what-not. 

The  surly  sneer  is  undeserved,  of  course,  but  it  illuminates 
the  human  appetite  for  details  about  great  men.  Carlyle  put 
upon  paper  his  own  impression  of  Webster,  after  having  been 
in  "the  great  expounder's"  company,  and  a  most  masterly  por- 
traiture it  is — "Steam  engine  in  breeches,"  and  so  forth. 

If  you  thought  it  worth  your  while  to  make  a  study  of  the 
comparatively  unimportant  individual  who  owns  the  adjoin- 
ing farm,  or  who  keeps  the  fruit  store,  or  who  presides  over 
the  Justice's  Court,  or  who  represents  the  railroad  at  the  ticket- 
window,  or  who  assigns  your  room  at  the  hotel,  or  who  takes 
your  fare  on  the  cars,  you  would  probably  find  him  just  as  full 
of  a  sense  of  individuality  as  any  of  the  Great:  and  his  daily 
life,  his  home  habits,  his  little  personal  peculiarities,  are  just  as 
marked  as  were  those  of  the  more  conspicuous  mortals  who  pos- 
sessed genius. 

Nevertheless,  we  are  not  going  to  pester  ourselves  to  gather 
facts  concerning  the  queerness,  the  eccentricity,  the  meanness, 
and  odd  freaks  of  intellect  which  characterize  the  anonymous 
Toms,  Dicks  and  Harrys:  what  we  do  want  to  know,  is  the  whole 
story,  every  detail,  concerning  the  lofty  men  who  dominate  our 
hero-worshiping  souls. 

Did  Jones,  who  owns  the  adjoining  farm,  cut  a  large  hole 
in  the  door  of  the  house  for  the  use  of  the  cat,  and  a  small  one 
for  the  kitten?  We  don't  know,  and  we  don't  care.  But  if  Sir 
Isaac  Newton  does  a  thing  like  that, — behold  the  bug  in  amber! 
Literature  will  tell  the  tale,  to  the  remotest  posterity  . 

Suppose  a  miscellaneous  city  dude  hires  a  horse  and  buggy, 
takes  his  gum-chewing  Mary  Lou  to  ride,  and  is  confronted  with 

(68) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  69 

an  emergency  which  requires  that  he  unharness  the  horse, — 
and  he  doesn't  know  how.  The  fact  does  not  even  attract  the 
attention  of  the  rural  correspondent  of  the  country  paper,  as 
does  the  largest  turnip,  the  earliest  watermelon,  and  the  goings 
and  comings  of  the  local  John  Henrys  and  Susan  Anns. 

But  how  different  it  is  with  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth! 
Those  mighty  monarchs  of  the  realms  of  rhyme  come  driving 
home,  find  the  hired  man  absent  from  the  post  of  duty,  and 
fatuously  undertake  to  strip  the  gear  off,  all  by  themselves. 
The  poets  progress  famously  until  they  try  to  remove  the  collar. 
In  those  days  the  collar  did  not  buckle  and  unbuckle,  as  now. 
It  was  a  continuous  ring  of  leather.  The  two  poets  could  not 
get  it  over  the  horse's  head.  In  vain  they  pulled  and  pushed. 
No  go.  They  then  fell  back  to  get  a  good  view  of  the  horse. 
Was  he  sick?  had  his  head  swollen  since  the  collar  was  put  on? 
Manifestly  something  unusual  had  happened.  It  was  the  same 
collar  and  the  same  horse;  yet,  the  collar,  which  had  gone  over 
the  horse's  head,  was  too  small  to  come  off. 

The  two  poets  gravely  and  anxiously  discussed  the  matter, 
and  made  another  earnest  effort  to  remove  the  collar.  Nothing 
doing.  Happily  the  servant-girl  caught  sight  of  the  puzzled 
philosophers,  and  went  to  the  rescue.  Turning  the  big  end  of 
the  collar  upward,  she  passed  it  over  the  horse's  head,  and  sailed 
off  triumphantly,  full  of  pride  and  the  exultant  sense  of  super- 
iority. In  her  eyes  the  men  who  didn't  have  sense  enough  to 
unharness  a  horse,  were  mighty  sorry  creatures,  even  though  they 
had  written  "The  Ancient  Mariner,"  and  "The  Excursion." 

The  visitor  who  found  Shelley  climbing  a  picket-fence,  every 
time  he  left  or  entered  the  yard  of  the  Italian  villa  he  had  rented 
— the  owner  having  left  the  gate  locked — was  vastly  amused  at 
the  poet's  simplicity. 

"Why  don't  you  break  the  lock,  and  use  the  gateway?" 
asked  the  sagacious  visitor. 

"Bless  my  soul,  I  never  thought  of  that!"  said  Shelley,  im- 
mensely relieved  at  the  idea  of  not  having  to  climb  the  picket 
fence  again. 

Can  you  doubt  that  the  visitor  went  away  pluming  himself 
upon  his  advantage  over  the  radiant  intellect  of  whose  marvelous 
fruitage  are  the  "Adonais,"  the  "Cloud,"  and  the  "Ode  to  the 
Nightingale"? 

If  Shakespeare  had  any  peculiarities,  we  don't  know  it:  he 
is  so  rounded-out,  symmetrical,  and  perfectly  healthy  as  to  be 
almost  impersonal.  So  I  would  speak  of  Goethe,  were  it  not 
for  his  cold  brutalities  to  the  women  whom  he  fascinated. 

But,  with  these  two  exceptions,  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
name  a  single  literary  genius  whose  eccentricities  were  not  con- 


70  PUOSE  MISCELLANIES 

spicuous.  You  will  dispute  this,  and  remind  me  that  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  was  a  heart  of  gold,  his  mind  eminently  sane  and  free 
of  the  morbid.  But  you  would  be  wrong — terribly  wrong.  Deep 
down  in  the  soul  of  Sir  Walter,  there  was  that  unmanliness  which 
crouches  and  cringes.  It  is  a  hard  thing  to  say  of  him  who  wrote 
the  "Young  Lochinvar,"  "Marmion,"  and  the  battle-song  in 
"The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  but  it  is  a  true  saying.  Had  Sir  Walter 
treasured,  as  a  sacred  heirloom,  some  cups  which  had  touched 
the  lips  of  William  Wallace,  or  of  Robert  Bruce,  or  of  that  mag- 
nificent brute,  Richard  the  Lion-hearted,  we  could  understand 
him,  and  respect  him  for  it;  but  when  we  see  him  catch  up  and 
put  in  his  pocket,  to  carry  home  and  keep  as  a  holy  relic,  a  glass 
whose  wine  had  been  guzzled  by  George  the  Fourth,  that  most 
putrid  of  all  putrid  Kings,  a  gust  of  scorn  and  contempt  sweeps 
over  us.  Why?  We  see  the  crouching  of  the  courtier  to  the  office 
of  King.  We  see  that,  after  all,  Sir  Walter's  was  the  soul  of 
the  lackey.  The  cringing  to  power  and  wealth  and  militarism, 
saturates  all  his  books.  A  Tory  to  the  very  bottom  of  his  heart, 
he  hates  a  rebel,  as  constituted  authority  always  does.  Upon 
the  Dissenter,  in  religion  and  in  politics,  he  empties  the  phials 
of  his  uttermost  derision, — doing  his  level  best  to  make  him  ludi- 
crous and  despicable.  "Submit  yourselves  to  those  in  power; 
bend  your  necks  to  Kings  and  Popes;  believe  that  every  wrong 
is  right,  if  you  found  it  established  when  you  came  into  the 
world" — that  is  the  message  of  Sir  Walter's  books,  and  it  has 
done  enormous  harm. 

The  oddities  of  Carlyle  would  of  themselves  fill  a  lengthy 
chapter.  The  crowing  rooster  bothered  him  grievously;  the 
lowing  cow  was  not  his  favorite  music;  the  dog  that  sat  in  one 
place  and  barked  1,000,000  times  found  no  favor  in  his  sight; 
and  the  piano  banger  next  door  sometimes  got  notes,  which  were 
not  on  her  scale.  Poor  old  philosopher,  telling  all  mankind  how 
to  live,  and  be  good  and  happy,  and  raving  like  a  madman  most 
of  the  time,  himself.  Discovering  after  marriage  that  he  had  no 
business  marrying,  he  humanly  went  to  work  to  make  both  him- 
self and  the  unfortunate  wife  wretched.  Caught  in  a  similar 
predicament,  John  Ruskin  gave  his  wife  away — to  the  painter 
Millais,  who  had  made  her,  and  a  fine  lot  of  children  ideally 
happy. 

Apparently,  no  other  man  sought  to  win  Mrs.  Carlyle,  and 
she  was  left  to  the  life  which  caused  her  to  say,  in  the  anguish 
of  her  hungry,  tortured  soul,  "I  feel  as  if  I  were  the  keeper  of 
a  private  madhouse." 

Lamartine  says,  "Genius  bears  within  itself  a  principle  of 
destruction,  of  death,  of  madness." 

This  is  unquestionably  true — a  very  terrible  fact.    Such  men 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  71 

as  Byron,  Coleridge,  Shelley,  Alfieri,  Dante,  Swift,  Tennyson, 
Poe,  Lander,  were  assuredly  nonsane,  if  judged  by  ordinary 
standards.  There  was  an  unbalance  of  faculties,  a  lack  of  mental 
symmetry  and  poise. 

What  a  motley  procession  it  is — that  of  the  great  men  of 
English  literature!  There  is  burly,  surly,  overbearing  Doctor 
Johnson,  with  his  drawing-room  amenities — such  as  "I  perceive. 
Sir,  that  you  are  a  vile  Whig!"  and  his  catching  hold  of  the 
hands  of  one  of  the  company,  to  prevent  gesticulation  during  the 
conversation;  and  his  stopping  in  the  street  to  pick  up  orange- 
peel,  for  some  mysterious,  undiscoverable  purpose;  and  his  touch- 
ing the  lamp-post  regularly,  as  he  walked  along;  and  his  swal- 
lowing, without  a  wink,  the  absurd  story  about  the  Cocklane 
Ghost,  and  his  compiling  a  dictionary,  in  which  he  scornfully  de- 
fines a  pension  as  "the  bribe  taken  by  a  traitor  for  the  betrayal 
of  his  country,"  and  then  accepting  a  pension  for  himself. 

There  is  poor  Chattertcn,  starving  in  his  garret;  and  Henry 
Fielding  reeling  toward  home  after  midnight,  drunk  as  a  lord. 
There  is  Dr.  Smollett,  poor  as  a  church  mouse,  writing  master- 
pieces of  realistic  fiction,  that  have  delighted  millions  and  made 
fortunes  for  publishers  and  book-sellers. 

There  is  the  Satanic  figure  of  Dean  Swift,  hating  the  whole 
human  race,  venting  his  impotent  rage  in  torrents  of  bitter  ob- 
scenities— incidentally  breaking  the  hearts  of  the  only  two  fel- 
low-beings that  ever  loved  him. 

There  is  Pope,  the  little  cripple,  who  is  so  bright  and  so 
ready  to  sting;  who  has  to  be  sewed  up  in  a  sack  every  morn- 
ing, and  put  to  bed  like  a  child  at  night;  and  who  threatens  to 
spite  the  unappreciative  age  in  which  he  lives  by  writing  no  more 
poetry. 

There  is  Oliver  Goldsmith,  the  sweetest  spirit  that  ever 
touched  the  chords  of  human  feeling;  and  there  is  Sheridan,  who, 
when  arrested  one  night  for  maudlin  drunkenness,  and  asked  his 
name,  answered  thickly,  "Wilberforce" — that  being  the  eminently 
respectable  name  of  England's  pioneer  Prohibitionist. 

Yes,  and  here  is  her  ladyship,  Mary  Wortly  Montague,  high- 
born dame  of  brilliant  wit,  known  as  the  introducer  into  Europe 
of  the  extremely  dubious  vaccination  practice;  and  whose  high 
breeding  once  manifested  itself  in  a  rather  famous  repartee. 
Some  daring  person  having  ventured  to  remark  to  the  Lady 
Mary  that  her  hands  were  dirty,  that  courageous  patrician  re- 
torted, daintily,  "You  ought  to  see  my  feet!" 

And  there  is  Southey,  tearing  along  the  road  of  that  haggard 
existence  of  his,  composing  monumental  epics,  which  nobody 
reads,  and  throwing  off  a  few  lyrics,  and  one  biography,  which 
are  classics,  and  immortal. 


72  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

And  let  us  sigh  for  Keats,  the  sensitive.  Did  he  really  creep 
to  bed,  turn  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  grieve  himself  to  death, 
because  an  immensely  inferior  man  had  made  fun  of  his  poems? 
I  hope  not.  His  work  has  so  wondrous  a  quality,  it  is  painful 
to  believe  that  he  was  so  structurally  weak.  How  much  finer 
Byron  was,  when  the  same  Quarterly  Review  ridiculed  his  ridic- 
ulous early  poems.  Instead  of  going  to  bed,  my  Lord  Byron 
gulps  down  a  few  bumpers  of  wine,  seizes  his  gray  goose  quill, 
and  goes  after  the  whole  tribe  of  English  and  Scotch  reviewers, 
putting  some  of  them  to  bed.  In  fact,  Byron  hadn't  written  a 
line  that  was  worth  while  until  then.  The  lash  of  the  reviewer 
aroused  him. 

Much  of  what  the  poets  write  is  unintelligible.  Perhaps 
they,  themselves,  understood  it,  but  that  is  doubtful.  Don't  you 
get  the  idea  that  Goethe  lost  his  way  in  the  latter  part  of  Faust? 
Does  Coleridge  always  make  his  meaning  knowable?  Are  you 
quite  sure  that  Poe  and  Browning  knew  what  they  were  trying 
to  say,  all  the  time? 

We  live  in  a  land  where  Walt  Whitman  has  many  warm 
admirers.  Let  me  close  by  quoting  a  few  lines  from  the  inspired 
Walt.  The  devotees  will  doubtless  unravel  the  poet's  meaning; 
but  a  lunacy  commission  would  be  justified  in  hesitating,  a  long 
while,  before  deciding  that  such  writing  is  not  evidence  of  mental 
aberration: 
"Divine  am  I  inside  and  out,  and  I  make  holy  whatever  I  touch 

or  am  touched  from; 
The  scent  of  these  armpits,  ar.oma  finer  than  prayer: 
This  head  more  than  churches.  Bibles  and  all  creeds. 
If  I  worship  one  thing  more  than  another,  it  shall  be  the  spread 
of  my  own  body,  or  any  part  of  it." 


Bubbles  on  the  Stream 

np  HE  day  is  drowsy:  insects  by  the  million  make  their  sub- 
-*■  duced,  silvery  music  in  the  fallow  field:  louder  sounds  have, 
somehow,  gone  into  the  distance:  infinite  quietude  falls  upon 
nature,  and  upon  you. 

Intensely  green  is  our  much-scorned  but  marvelously  beauti- 
ful, short-leaf  pine,  luxuriant  of  plumage,  endless  in  variety  and 
grace  of  symmetry;  and  against  its  serried  ranks  of  unbroken 
green  stands  the  yellowing  poplar,  and  the  sweet-gum  turning 
to  bronze.  Notice  how  the  vine  of  the  poison-oak  wreaths  its 
scarlet  ribbons  through  the  maple  and  the  pine;  see  it  run,  like 
streams  of  blood,  down  the  tree. 

You  drink  in  the  scene,  as  a  Bacchanal  would  sip  the  nectar 
of  the  gods;  and  then  you  stroll  down  to  the  creek,  and  rest 
on  the  rock,  by  the  little  cascade. 

You  fall  to  watching  the  bubbles. 

The  surface  is  covered  with  them,  always;  but  no  combina- 
tion, however  cunningly  arranged,  can  remain  so. 

Not  for  an  instant. 

The  bubbles  form,  the  bubbles  break,  the  bubbles  re-form, 
and  again  they  break.  Always,  there  are  the  bubbles,  but  never 
there,  to  stay,  are  the  bubbles  at  which  you  gaze.  Always  com- 
ing, they  are  always  going;  always  combining,  they  as  quickly 
dissolve. 

Bubbles  of  Yesterday- — where  are  they?  Bubbles  of  Tomor- 
row— what  will  they  be? 

The  stream  is  eternal,  like  the  hills:  bubbles  come,  bubbles 
go,  but  the  stream  sings  the  old,  old  Song  of  the  Brook. 

Is  there  any  symbol  of  life  more  complete,  more  striking, 
than  we  have  here  in  these  bubbles  on  the  stream? 

Consider  the  family — can  its  relations  be  made  to  endure? 
It  is  different  today  from  what  it  was  yesterday — different  in 
its  own  members,  different  in  its  touch  with  the  outer  world. 

Even  your  own  little  household,  is  a  group  of  bubbles  on  the 
ever-running  stream  of  life. 

Where  are  those  who  sat  around  the  hearth  in  the  years  gone 
by? 

Where  will  tomorrow  leave  those  who  sit  around  it  now? 

The  stream  will  flow  on,  to  its  appointed  purpose  in  the  un- 
fathomable plan  of  the  Master;  but  the  bubbles — ah,  they  come 
and  they  go. 

73) 


74 


PRO^E  MISCELLANIES 


Even  as  we  clasp  the  hand,  it  is  cold.  Even  as  we  kiss  the 
cheek,  it  fades. 

Then  consider  that  larger  circle — your  friends.  See  the  bub- 
bles change.  Yesterday  your  enemies  were  your  friends:  To- 
morrow your  friends  will  be  your  enemies.  No  tie  can  fasten 
these  human  hearts  of  ours.  Gratitude  is  a  dream.  Loyalty  is 
the  unattainable.     Under  the   feet  of  Selfishness,  of  Envy,  of 


THE    STREAM    ETERNAL    AS    THE    HILLS 


Jealousy,  the  ennobling  affections  are  trampled  with  remorseless 
tread.  No  fair  Italia,  of  kind  offices  and  gentle  words,  can  stay 
the  ruthless  march  of  Attila  and  the  Huns.  So  it  is  that  the 
circle  of  friends  is  just  as  a  larger  group  of  bubbles  on  the  pool, 
ever  changing,  never  staying,  ever  combining,  now  falling  away, 
now  coming  together  again.     Alas,  the  heart-break  of  it! 

Then  look  again,  and  contemplate  the  larger  stream  of  town- 
life,  of  State-life,  of  national  relationship,  of  world-wide  alliances. 

What  are  these  but  vaster  collections  of  bubbles  on  the 
stream? 

You  hear  people  say,  "Politics  make  strange  bed-fellows." 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  75 

It  means  that  the  bubbles  have  changed.  They  had  tu.  It 
is  the  law  of  nature. 

In  the  commercial  world,  in  the  domain  of  religion,  in  all 
industrial  callings — everywhere  we  look,  we  see  the  l)ubbles 
breaking,  and  the  bubbles  forming.  Nothing  endures.  Each 
great  nation  is  not  only  composed  of  ever-changing  bubbles — 
each  a  scene  of  perpetual  breakings  up  and  re-alignments — but 
the  family  of  nations  is  never  the  same,  for  a  single  year.  They 
change  their  attitude  toward  each  other  while  you  look.  Friendly 
today,  any  two  of  the  Powers  may  be  at  war  tomorrow. 

Poor  mortals  that  we  arc!  Each  bubble  of  us  fondly  believes 
that  he  has  come  to  stay. 

And  we  never  can  bring  ourselves  to  realize  that,  in  the 
immeasurable  dimensions  of  the  Universe,  we  are  no  more  than 
bubbles  on  the  stream. 

"Down  and  out!"  laughs  the  cold  stream,  as  it  hurries  away 
with  the  breaking  bubbles. 

"Down  and  out!"  is  what  the  epitaph  means,  whether  writ- 
ten on  the  monument  which  defies  Time,  or  briefly  traced  in  the 
memory  of  the  few  who  knew  when  the  bubble  disappeared. 


A  Rose  on  the  Snow 

"p\  ID  you  ever  snatch  a  day  from  the  dusty  world  of  strife, 
■■-^  and  carry  it  with  you  to  the  great,  silent  woods  of  Indian 
Summer? 

Did  you  ever  take  by  the  hand  the  sweet,  patient  wife  who 
loves  you  so,  and  say  unto  her,  "Sweetheart,  will  you  walk  with 
me  today?" 

If  you  never  have,  then  a  rich  old  glass  of  the  nectar  of  the 
gods  stands  neglected  within  your  reach — nectar  as  free  to  the 
peasant  as  to  the  King. 

Very  quietly  we  went,  we  two,  my  sweetheart  and  I,  taking 
our  way  along  the  path,  then  across  the  falling  leaves — saying 
little. 

The  sounds  of  travel  on  the  road  were  left  far  behind,  and 
we  were  alone,  she  and  I,  in  the  majestic  forest. 

How  gorgeous  it  was !  The  dress-parade  of  nature  was  never 
more  brilliant,  nor  more  alluring.  The  red  Sugarberry  put  its 
battle-flag  on  every  summit.  The  golden  Maple  walked  hand  in 
hand  with  the  Red  Elm;  and,  underneath,  crowded  the  Dog- 
wood and  the  Sassafrass  in  serried  skirmish-line. 

Saul-like,  towered  the  Pine,  over  blazing  yellow  Hickory, 
over  purple  heads  of  Oaks. 

And  the  falling  leaves — how  they  drifted,  dazzling  snow- 
flakes  of  rainbow  hue  from  the  skies  that  held  no  cloud- — drifting, 
here  against  a  rock;  drifting,  yonder  against  a  bank;  falling 
straight,  or  falling  aslant — but  falling,  falling,  and  making  upon 
the  ground  a  carpet,  deep  and  soft  and  matchless. 

We  walked  upon  it  very  slowly,  looking  about  us  and  paus- 
ing to  listen  now  and  then.  A  squirrel  was  gathering  nuts,  just 
above  us.  How  silly  it  w^as  of  him  to  break  away,  leaping  fran- 
tically from  limb  to  limb  to  reach  his  cozy  home!  He  was  in 
no  danger,  for  we  had  no  cruelty  in  our  hearts  that  day — surely 
none,  that  day.  ^ 

The  sap-sucker  and  the  yellow-hammer  were  busy  on  decay- 
ing limbs,  and  the  tattoo  which  they  beat  with  their  long  bills 
rang  metalically  down  the  woods. 

A  covey  of  partridges,  sunning  themselves,  got  almost  un- 
der our  feet  before,  with  a  great  flutter,  they  rose  and  whirled 
away — my  sweetheart  clapping  her  little  hands  with  pleasure 
as  they  went 

Over  ledge  after  ledge  of  rocks  between  two  steep  hills,  heav- 

(76) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  77 

ily  wooded,  dashed  a  little  stream,  from  the  spring,  far  up  the 
slope. 

Was  ever  music  sweeter?  We  said  we  did  not  think  so;  and 
as  we  noted  the  record  of  the  water-path  on  the  rocks,  and 
counted  how  long,  how  very  long,  that  little  stream  must  have 
been  cleaving  its  way  down  to  the  gray  rocks  whereon  we  sat, 
we  caught  some  idea  how  old,  how  very  old,  it  all  was;  and  I 
wondered  if  a  Red  Man  had  stood  there,  beside  the  dusky  damsel 
he  loved;  and  which  furrow  on  the  granite  the  slender  rill  was 
running  in,  when  Helen  of  Troy  was  young,  and  when  chained 
thousands,  beneath  a  tyrant's  lash,  were  hewing  the  stone  for 
the  Pyramids. 

No  wonder  that  in  this  idle  dreaming  my  sweetheart  got 
away  from  me,  unnoted,  and  went  further  down  the  glen.  She 
soon  called  me  to  see  her  feed  the  fishes — silver-sided  fishes  by 
the  score,  which  came  to  her  scattered  crumbs  almost  as  if  they 
knew  her. 

And  so  we  strolled  from  rock  to  rock,  and  tree  to  tree — 
each  more  splendidly  aglow  with  the  colors  of  Indian  Summer 
than  the  other. 

It  was  all  quiet — very  grand,  very  lovely,  very  saddening. 
Boisterous  laughter  in  these  regal  woods  had  been  sacrilege. 
Light  thoughts,  beneath  those  falling  leaves,  had  been  criminal. 
In  the  sound  of  these  speeding  waters  over  the  old  gray  rocks, 
bad  passions  hid  themselves,  and  kindness  was  in  the  mind 
and  in  the  heart. 

The  rude,  busy  world  seemed  far  away — and  forgotten.  Its 
cares,  its  toils,  its  strife,  its  aspirations  were  all  behind  and  away. 

We  were  alone,  my  wife  and  I,  and  our  thoughts  like  our 
hands,  were  joined  together.  We  did  not  speak  overmuch.  There 
was  no  need. 

What  need  had  I  to  tell  her  how  my  thoughts  had  gone  back 
to  the  time  when  a  nameless,  homeless  suitor  found  grace  in 
her  sight? 

There  was  no  need.    She  knew — she  well  knew. 

What  need  for  her  to  say  that  amid  all  shortcomings,  I  had 
given  her  the  knowledge  of  fervent  loyalty,  of  unbounded  de- 
votion which  never  wearied  in  its  utterance,  or  its  proofs? 

There  was  no  need;    I  knew  it  well. 

What  need  of  either  to  speak  of  these  things? 

None. 

And  ah,  what  need  was  there  for  us  to  speak  of  that  which 
always  makes  the  lip  tremble  and  the  very  soul  cry  out,  in 
boundless  grief. 

There  was  no  need.  I  knew  that  the  tiny  footsteps  of  one 
who  shall  never  walk  again,  followed  her  all  along  those  woods. 


78  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

I  knew  that  the  clear,  joyous  little  voice  sang  in  every  song  of 
the  water.  I  knew  that  down  every  glade  of  the  murmuring 
trees,  there  came  the  whispered  question  to  her  as  to  me,  "Shall 
she  ever  be  ours  again?" 

And  I  had  only  to  look  into  her  sad  face  to  know,  that  the 
question  was  not  answered  unto  her  any  more  than  it  was  unto 
me. 

And  so  I  took  her  hand  and  led  her  from  the  woods — kissing 
her  queenly  lips  many  a  time,  and  bearing  her  up  the  steeps 
with  my  arm. 

As  we  went  to  our  home,  the  long  red  lances  of  sunlight 
fell  over  the  brown  fields  and  the  evening  came  in  upon  us,  radi- 
ant and  warm. 

When  the  moon  silvered  the  treetops  that  night,  it  looked 
into  many  a  happy  home,  I  trust,  but  into  none  had  it  followed 
man  or  woman  who  had  more  deeply  drank  from  the  splendors 
of  the  day. 

Oh,  friend  and  brother,  leave  your  plow  some  day;  leave 
your  mill  some  day ;  leave  your  bank  some  day ;  leave  your  office 
some  day,  and  in  God's  magnificent  forest,  commune  with  Him 
and  with  yourself — your  past,  your  present,  and  your  future. 

Your  life  must  be  a  bleak  snowdrift  indeed,  if  such  a  day 
does  not  lay  a  rose  upon  it. 


Reverie  and  Suggestion 

/CHRISTMAS  is  in  the  air.  You  cun  feel  it  in  tiic  night- 
^-^  time,  when  you  hear  the  chickens  wierdly  crow,  as  they  do 
not  at  any  other  season. 

You  can  feel  it  in  the  daytime,  as  you  note  the  loosening  of 
the  close-fitting  harness  of  business  and  social  form;  as  you 
listen  to  the  ring  of  the  small  voices  of  the  children,  who  step 
more  briskly  down  the  street  and  cluster  in  more  hilarious 
groups;  as  you  see  the  tendency  of  Man  to  throw  off  the  light 
costume  of  restraint  and  civilization,  and  to  let  slip,  once  more, 
the  lustful  inclination  of  the  original  savage. 


Yes,  there's  a  feeling  of  Christmas  in  the  air.  What  sort  of 
a  feeling  does  that  put  into  your  heart,  my  brother?  Does  it 
melt  you  to  think  of  the  dim  years  when  you  were  a  bright  little 
boy,  and  when  you  tip-toed  into  the  parlor  at  daybreak,  to  see 
what  Santa  Claus  had  put  into  your  stocking? 

Long  before  the  sun  thought  of  getting  up,  you  were  up — 
you  and  your  little  sister — -and  into  the  half-dark  parlor  you 
went,  almost  in  fear  as  well  as  in  hope,  for  the  white  stockings 
hanging  stiffly  there  in  the  fireplace  seemed  the  least  bit  ghostly. 

In  that  gray  dawn,  how  happy  you  were  to  empty  the  stock- 
ing and  find  that,  by  some  mysterious  chance,  Santa  Claus  had 
brought  you  just  what  you  wanted.  Since  then,  has  purer  joy 
ever  filled  your  soul?    Has  life  given  you  sweeter  moments? 

No;  the  exquisite  enjoyment  of  that  early  morning  is  some- 
thing that  Providence  never  gave  to  you,  again. 

Do  you  remember  the  vague  pain  that  smote  you  when  you 
had  grown  large  enough  to  be  told  that  there  was  no  such  Be- 
nevolent Friend  of  all  the  little  children,  as  Santa  Claus? 

What  was  the  next  great  event  and  happiness  of  your  life? 

It  was  when  the  sweetheart  to  whom  you  had  been  awk- 
wardly, timidly,  making  love,  let  you  "cut  out"  all  the  other 
boys,  and  walk  home  with  her. 

Weren't  you  proud?    And  wasn't  she  pretty? 

Those  clear,  pure  eyes;  those  rosy  cheeks;  those  smiling  lips; 
that  wealth  of  glossy  hair;  those  pearly  teeth — heavens!  how 
you  worshiped  her. 

Would  you  have  swapped  places  with  a  King  that  day,  when 
she  first  accepted  your  invitation  to  a  buggy  ride? 

(79) 


80  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

When  she  came  close  to  you  and  pinned  the  hyacinth  or  the 
violet  to  your  coat-lapel,  your  heart  beat  pit-a-pat,  and  you 
held  your  breath  till  the  dainty  boutonniere  was  fixed. 

And  when  you  had  worn  the  flower  till  it  was  wilted,  you 
reverently  laid  it  away  in  some  book — ^didn't  you?  And  you 
have  them  yet — nor  is  there  gold  enough  in  all  the  world  to  buy 
those  faded  flowers! 

After  ever  so  long  a  time,  as  you  thought — ages,  it  seemed 
to  your  impatience — she  said,  "Yes"- — and  let  you  kiss  her. 

Wasn't  that  a  glorious  night? 

You  walked  on  air  as  you  went  back  to  your  home,  didn't 
you? 

You  were  in  such  a  state  of  happy  exhilaration  that  you 
couldn't  sleep. 

Are  you  ashamed  to  admit  that  deep  down  in  your  heart 
was  a  tender  thankfulness  to  the  God  who  had  blessed  you  with 
the  love  of  so  good  a  woman? 

Ah,  well — you  were  married  to  her,  and  you  two  began  the 
upward  struggle  together. 

How  hard  the  climb  of  the  hill!  What  labor  there  was; 
what  disappointments;  what  days  of  bleak  despondency;  what 
nights  of  black  despair. 

In  that  terrible  climb  of  the  hill,  did  you  neglect  your  wife? 

Did  you  fail  of  that  tender  consideration  which  was  her  due? 

Did  you  sometimes  bring  your  clouded  face  and  sour  mind 
to  the  fireside,  and  morosely  impose  your  own  sufferings  upon 
her? 

Were  those  sweet  lips  made  to  tremble  in  mute  pain?  Those 
fond  eyes  to  shed  secret  tears? 

Happy  the  husband  who  can  say,  "I  never  did.  Wretch  that 
I  am — /  can  not." 

After  a  while,  children  came  to  you.  Then  were  renewed 
delights  of  Christmas  Eve  and  Christmas  Morning.  To  settle 
upon  what  should  be  bought  for  the  children's  stockings;  to 
smuggle  these  selections  into  the  house;  to  watch  the  little  ones 
hang  up  their  stockings;  to  hear  their  guesses  and  speculations 
as  to  what  Santa  Claus  would  bring;  to  listen  to  the  naive,  "I 
hope  Santa  Claus  will  bring  me"  so  and  so;  and  then  after  they 
had  cuddled  down  and  were  sound  asleep — do  you  remember 
how  you  and  your  wife  went  back  into  the  room  where  the 
stockings  hung?  There  was  pleasure  in  it — and  yet,  there  was 
sadness,  too. 

It  was  late  in  the  night  when  you  were  acting  Santa  Claus 
for  the  little  ones,  and  it  was  a  time  for  sober  thoughts. 

Would  next  Christmas  Eve  find  all  the  stockings  hung? 

Would  three  merry  voices  mingle  in  the  hubbub  over  the 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  81 

gifts  of  Santa  Claus,  and  would  three  happy  little  faces  shine 
as  they  came  running  to  you,  with:  "See  what  Santa  Claus 
brought  me?" 

Or,  upon  next  Christmas  Eve,  would  you  be  sitting  alone  by 
the  dying  fire,  racked  with  a  pain  that  would  never,  never  lose 
its  power  to  torture — because  upon  this  Christmas  Eve  there 
were  but  twof 

The  years  pass,  pass,  pass — and  now  you  arc  on  the  Western 
slope  of  the  hill.  The  wife  who  climbed  the  hill  with  you  is  still 
at  your  side.  No  matter  who  else  failed  you,  she  did  not.  No 
matter  who  else  found  fault  with  you,  she  never  did.  If  she  ever 
spoke  to  you  unkindly,  and  served  you  reluctantly,  or  fell  short 
of  perfect  wifely  devotion,  you  did  not  realize  it. 

How  can  you  reward  your  noble  wife?  Will  you  not  prove 
to  her  that  you  appreciate  her?  Will  you  not  bring  to  her  that 
splendid  loyalty,  which  a  proud  woman  prizes  more  highly  than 
a  miser  prizes  gold? 

In  word,  in  thought,  in  deed,  will  you  not  be  as  true  to  her, 
as  she  has  been  to  you? 

Will  you  not  prove  by  unfailing  tenderness  with  which  you 
minister  to  her  happiness,  now,  the  depth  of  your  remorse  for 
your  shortcomings  in  those  early  years? 

Will  you  not  call  back  the  spirit  of  the  days  of  your  court- 
ship, and  be  as  proud  of  her  kiss,  just  as  happy  to  take  her  to 
your  arms,  as  on  that  glorious  night  when  she  promised  to  be 
yours,  and  yielded  her  queenly  lips  to  your  kiss? 

But  perhaps  you  are  of  another  sort.  Perhaps  you  think 
all  this  silly.  Maybe  the  softening  touch  of  Christmas-time 
softens  nothing  in  you.     I  pray  God  it  may  not  be  so. 

For  your  sake,  as  well  as  your  wife's,  listen:  The  only  hu- 
man being  that  you  can  count  on  to  stand  by  you,  in  spite  of  "the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,"  is  your  wife. 

Children  will  grow  up  and  pass  onward — out  of  your  life  and 
into  one  of  their  own.  Relatives  and  friends  may  go  with  you 
a  long  way,  but  they  will  not  go  all  the  way.    Your  wife  will. 

In  all  the  universe,  you  can't  be  sure  of  any  one  but  her. 
Then  make  the  most  of  her.  Are  her  cheeks  faded?  Kiss  her 
on  the  lips,  and  then  see  the  roses  blossom  once  more  on  that 
pallid  face. 

Have  her  eyes  been  swollen  and  dim  with  tears?  Put  your 
arms  about  her,  and  tell  her  you  love  her  just  as  much  as  you 
ever  did. 

Then  watch  the  light  of  joy  kindle  those  eyes,  until  they 
sparkle  as  brightly  as  in  the  days  of  youth. 

Ah,  it  is  so  easy  to  make  a  woman  happy,  if  the  right  man 


82 


PRO&E  MISCELLANIES 


wants  to  do  it.    And  the  right  man  to  make  your  wife  liappy,  is 
you. 

Think  of  the  nights  you  were  sick  unto  death,  and  she 
nursed  you;  think  of  the  fearful  agonies  of  the  birth-hour,  when 
she  brought  your  children  into  the  world;  think  of  the  long- 
drawn  years  in  which  she  has  daily  done  the  drudgery  of  a  slave, 


'REVERIE' 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  83 

think  how  she  has  had  to  bear  the  Cross  of  your  troubles,  as 
well  as  her  own;  think  what  she  has  had  to  go  through  with 
in  rearing  your  children;  think  of  iier  cramped,  dull  and  monot- 
onous life  at  home,  while  you  were  mingling  with  the  bustling 
crowds  of  the  outside  world. 

Think  of  all  this,  brother,  and  allow  much  for  the  jaded, 
faded  wife.  Go  to  her  and  warm  your  own  heart,  as  well  as 
hers,  by  talking  to  her,  in  the  old,  old  way  of  lovers. 

Court  her  again,  as  you  courted  her  when  you  sought  her 
hand. 

Tell  her  that  she  is  just  as  pretty  as  ever.  This  may  pos- 
sibly not  be  the  truth ;  but,  if  a  lie  at  all,  it  will  be  the  whitest 
one  you  ever  told.  The  Recording  Angel  may  feel  in  duty  bound 
to  charge  it  upon  the  debit  side  of  your  account,  but  as  he  washes 
it  out  afterwards  with  a  tear,  he  will  enter  an  item  to  your 
credit  on  the  other  side  of  the  ledger,  and  he  will  write  it  in 
letters  of  gold. 


As  It  Is,  and  as  It  May  Be 

T   WAS  very  tired,  for  the  work  I  had  been  doing  was  hard; 

and  now  that  the  room  grew  warm  and  the  long  task  was 
finished,  I  fell  asleep. 

No  one  in  the  house  had  been  awake  but  me,  while  I  had 
for  many  hours  gone  over  the  dreary  record  of  the  poor,  the 
patient  poor,  the  suffering  poor — God's  unprovided  poor.  The 
hours  had  stolen  by,  like  slippered  monks,  and  it  was  far  into 
the  night  when  the  heaviness  fell  upon  my  eyes,  and  I  was  asleep. 

Many  a  whirling  fiction  passed  through  my  heated  fancy 
before  there  was  order  in  my  Dream,  but  after  a  while  all  was 
clear — cruelly,  shockingly  clear. 

A  universe  unfolded,  spreading  out  like  a  map.  Every 
grade  and  class  and  condition  of  human  life  was  before  me,  at 
once — with  no  mist  before  my  eyes  and  no  distance  to  confuse 
the  outline. 

What  I  saw  was  this:  A  magnificent  world  of  land  and 
sea;  of  river  and  lake  and  forest  and  fertile  field,  mountains 
seamed  with  hidden  wealth;  valleys  rich  with  grain. 

To  this  world  its  Maker  had  given  the  name  of  "A  home  for 
the  human  family." 

But  the  human  family  had  grown  very  large.  Its  foot- 
prints were  thick  upon  every  stretch  of  solid  ground,  and  its 
vessels  moved  upon  all  the  waters  of  all  the  seas. 

But  the  earth  was  no  longer  a  family-home,  and  men  were 
no  longer  brothers.  With  furious  enmity,  they  hated  each  other. 
They  worshiped  God,  but  none  of  them  regarded  His  law. 
They  cried  Peace,  and  loosed  the  war  dogs.  They  rose  from 
prayer,  and  went  to  rifle-practice. 

Churches  flourished — so  did  crime.  Schools  flourished — so 
did  ignorance.  Charities  flourished — and  paupers  died  in  the 
streets.    I  wondered  what  it  all  meant. 

There  was  land  enough  for  all.  They  said  that  God  had 
made  it  for  all.  But  the  few  had  taken  possession  of  it,  and 
the  many  had  no  homes.  There  was  food  enough  for  all:  but 
the  few  had  seized  it,  and  the  many  had  not  enough  to  eat. 

I  tried  to  discover  how  the  human  family  kept  itself  alive. 
I  found  it  was  by  Work. 

There  were  many  kinds  of  work.  Some  labored  to  produce 
food:  some  labored  to  produce  clothing.  Some  labored  to  make 
houses,  others  to  make  deadly  weapons,  only.    Some  labored  to 

(84) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  85 

teach  the  i)eople  the  law  of  God;  others  to  expound  and  enforce 
the  laws  which  men  had  made  for  themselves.  Others  still 
labored  (or  pretended  to  labor)  to  make  just  laws,  by  which 
God's  will  should  be  done  in  the  affairs  of  men. 

In  my  dream,  I  saw  clearly  a  most  singular  thing—those 
whose  work  was  most  important  to  the  world,  were  paid  less 
for  their  labor  than  anybody  else.  Those  who  merely  amused 
the  world,  got  higher  wages  than  those  who  fed  and  clothed  it. 
Those  who  played  and  danced,  got  higher  pay  than  the  man 
who  built  the  house  they  played  and  danced  in.  Those  who 
labored  to  amuse  the  idle,  drew  enormous  salaries  and  were 
the  pets  of  the  powerful;  while  those  who  kept  the  powerful 
clothed  and  fed,  lacked  food  and  clothing  for  themselves. 

In  my  dream,  the  cause  of  this  cruel  state  of  things  became 
clearer.  Those  who  had  made  the  law  had  so  cunningly  done 
it,  that  the  strong  man  was  master  of  the  weak.  The  strong 
man  became  the  ruler,  and  out  of  the  weak  man's  own  pro- 
duce, gave  him  whatever  he  chose.  This  made  the  strong  man 
stronger,  and  the  weak  man  weaker. 

I  thought  I  heard  a  great  heart-breaking  cry  go  up  from 
those  poor  producers  of  wealth,  but  their  task-masters  heard 
it  not-^so  deaf  are  they  who  will  not  hear. 

I  thought  that,  now  and  then,  these  workers  and  producers 
grew  furious  against  their  oppressors,  and  rose  in  revolt.  But 
they  were  put  down  again — some   shot  and  some  imprisoned. 

I  thought  that,  now  and  then,  Leaders  sprung  up  among 
those  suffering  people  and  promised  to  go  to  the  Great  House 
of  Council,  where  the  laivs  were  made,  and  to  change  these  bad . 
laws  into  good  ones.  But  either  such  Leaders  were  too  few, 
or  the  strong  men  would  take  those  Leaders  aside  into  some 
safe  and  secret  place,  and,  by  some  unknown  charms  and  per- 
suasions, entice  those  Leaders  into  forgetfulness  of  the  miseries 
of  the  People. 

So  passed  the  first  day  of  my  dream — the  Dream  of  Today 
— of  the  world  as  it  is. 

Like  a  vanishing  landscape,  I  saw  the  great  Palaces  of  the 
Rich,  and  the  wretched  huts  of  the  poor;  the  fine  raiment  of 
the  one,  and  the  rags  of  the  other;  the  well-spread  tables  of  the 
one,  and  the  cold  hearth  and  empty  dish  of  the  other.  The 
factories  went  whirling  into  space— but  through  the  windows 
I  could  see  the  pale,  thin  features  of  the  children  who  toiled 
there.  The  mine  opened  one  brief  moment,  and  I  could  see 
the  pitiful  serf  of  the  Coal  King.  The  garret  sped  by,  and  it 
made  the  tears  come,  to  see  the  shivering  needle  woman  sew- 
ing there.  The  streets  swam  by,  filled  with  their  squalor,  their 
hunger,    their    ceaseless    vice    and    crime    and    suffering — and 


86  PRO&E  MISCELLANIES 

Christianity  spoke  in  these  streets  through  the  mouth  of  the 
Policeman,  and  what  she  said  to  the  ragged  outcast  was: 
"Move  on";  what  she  said  to  the  starving  child  was,  "Move  on." 
And  it  strangely  got  into  my  Dream,  somehow,  that  the 
cause  of  all  the  sorrow  was  that  the  Order  of  the  world  was  a 
mistake— a,  dreadful  misunderstanding.  The  unnatural  had 
become  the  rule.  A  feverish  haste  had  taken  possession  of 
mankind;  and  the  race  was  madly  run  for  things  which  men 
really  did  not  need.  One  man  rushed  because  another  rushed, 
cheated  because  others  cheated,  hoarded  because  others  hoarded 
— was  cruel  because  he  thought  the  same  measure  would  be 
meted  out  to  him,  were  situations  reversed. 


But  the  troubled  nightmare  passed,  and  I  fell  into  the 
Dream  of  Tomorrow — a  gorgeous  Dream,  a  Spirit-lifting  Dream 
— of  the  world  as  it  may  be.  I  seemed  to  look  upon  the  same 
world,  but  it  was  filled  with  harmony,  and  bathed  in  light. 

The  great  rush  and  worry  had  passed  away.  The  fever 
and  the  pain  were  gone.  The  vast  machinery  of  production 
moved  like  the  stars,  "never  resting,  but  never  hasting."  There 
was  room  for  all,  and  food  for  all.  The  Earth  was  dedicated 
anew  as  a  Home  for  God's  Children — its  products  their  food. 
Religion  burst  out  from  the  cold  churches,  and  abode  in  the 
lives  of  men — that  high  Religion  which  loves  mercy,  does  good 
and  seeks  the  Right. 

Law  was  no  longer  frittered  away  among  wrangling  advo- 
cates and  stupid  Judges.  She  took  her  feroad  principles  into 
the  walks  of  life,  and  did  justice,  between  man  and  man. 
Technicality  no  longer  manacled  Truth,  and  a  Judgment  was 
no  longer  the  trophy  of  the  trickiest,  or  strongest  lawyer. 

The  Rulers  of  the  People  no  longer  scorned  them,  nor  de- 
frauded them  with  cunning  laws  and  sharp  practices.  The 
People  themselves  now  ruled,  and  the  worker  was  no  longer  a 
dependent.  Special  Privilege  had  been  slain,  and  Opportunity 
was  free  for  all. 

There  were  no  outcasts — for  all  had  homes.  There  were 
no  beggars,  for  there  was  work  and  fair  wages  for  all.  None 
had  much  more  than  they  needed;  none  had  much  less. 

There  was  little  crime,   for  its  cause  had  been  diminshed. 

There  was  brotherhood  among  men,  for  the  motive  for 
rivalry  and  hatred  had  been  taken  away. 

War  had  ceased.  The  killing  of  men  had  become  horrible, 
whether  singly  or  by  thousands.  A  Murderer  was  detested, 
whether  he  slew  with  a  knife  or  a  sword,  with  a  i)istol  or  with 
a  Maxim. 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  87 

The  hum  of  peaceful  industry  was  in  the  air.  Tlic  melody 
of  innocent  laughter  was  in  the  streets.  The  song  of  the  con- 
tented Reaper  was  in  the  field.  Music  was  supreme — it  was  the 
melody  of  healthy,  happy  life. 

******* 

Why  was  Tomorrow  so  much  brighter  and  better  than  To- 
day?   This  question  seemed  to  come  to  me  in  my  dream. 
And  from  somewhere,  this  reply  seemed  to  be  borne: 
"Because  the  mistake  of  yesterday  had  been  found  and  cor- 
rected.    Because  Injustice  had  been  driven  out  of  the  Laws; 
because  favoritism  in  legislation  had  ceased;  because  the  pro- 
ducer of  wealth  had  secured  fair  treatment;  because  the  cun- 
ning laws  of  the  Task-master  were  all  dead;  because  there  were 
a  few  brave  men  all  over  the  world  who  had  solemnly  sworn, 
before  God,  that  the  old  false  order  of  things  should  die.'' 
******* 

Out  of  the  dim  Past  seemed  to  come  voices: 

One  said:  "I  gave  my  life  to  pleasure.  Wine  was  good, 
and  women  were  good,  and  mirth  was  good.  But  youth  passed 
— age  came,  and  my  heart  was  empty  and  sad." 

Another  voice  said:  "I  gave  my  life  to  war.  Cities  I  sacked, 
enemies  I  crushed;  laurels  have  I  won  and  worn.  But  the  sword 
rusted  in  my  hand.  The  spiders  weave  'twixt  me  and  the  sun. 
And  in  my  ears,  as  I  grow  old,  is  the  cry  of  the  widow  and  the 
orphan." 

"Another  voice  said:  "/  gave  my  life  to  my  fellow-man. 
I  pitied  his  misfortune.  I  championed  his  cause.  T  loved  the 
friendless.  I  hated  wrong,  ancl  fought  tyranny  wherever  I 
found  it.  The  work  has  been  hard:  the  way  has  been  sown  with 
thorns.  But  now,  as  the  evening  comes,  I  fold  my  arms  in  con- 
tentment and  fear  not  at  all  the  approaching  shades.  The 
Master's  touch  is  on  my  head,  and  I  hear  Him  say,  'Inasmuch 
as  ye  did  it  unto  the  least  of  these,  ye  did  it  unto  Me.' " 

Thus  passed  my  dream.  And  I  awoke,  heavy  of  heart;  for 
I  knew  Today  was  as  I  had  dreampt,  and  that  Tomoirow  might 
never  come;  that  the  World  as  it  is,  and  the  World  as  it  may 
be,  are  as  far  apart  as  the  real  from  the  ideal. 


The  Song  of  the  Bar-Room 

A  LIVE,  let  us  live.  Where  is  Yesterday?  Lost  forever. 
'^^  Where's  Tomorrow?  It  may  never  come.  Today  is  here. 
Within  its  fleeting  hours,  runs  the  only  certainty  that  you'll 
ever  know.  Come!  eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  for  tomorrow  vou 
die! 

The  chains  of  Self-restraint  are  galling — throw  them  off! 
The  burden  of  Duty  is  grievous — fling  it  down!  The  cross  of 
Responsibility  is  crushing — let  another  bear  it! 

Live  for  yourself:  live  for  the  Now:  live  for  the  lust  of  living. 

Drink!  and  forget  dull  Care.  Drink!  and  ease  the  heart- 
ache.    Drink!  and  drown  the  passion  for  the  unattainable. 

See  how  men  are  drawn  to  me!  My  lights  blaze  a  brilliant 
welcome:  I  am  never  too  hot,  nor  too  cold.  Mirrored  Vanity 
smirks  in  my  gilded  reflectors;  and  no  one  is  ill  at  ease,  in  my 
Free-for-all  Club.  No  shrewish  wife  can  tongue-lash  you,  here; 
no  peevish  child  annoy  you  with  its  cries.  Leave  to  them  the 
ugliness  of  your  haggard  home,  and  come  unto  me  for  comfort. 
Theirs,  the  cold  and  the  gloom  and  the  lonely  vigil — yours,  the 
warmth  and  glow  and  social  joy. 

Clink  your  glasses,  men!  Drink,  again,  "Here's  hoping." 
'Tis  well  to  toast  her  here,  where  begins  the  trail  to  the  grave 
of  Hope.  Be  jolly;  let  the  place  ring  with  laughter:  relate 
the  newest  story — the  story  that  matches  the  nude  pictures  on 
the  wall. 

What's  that?  A  dispute,  angry  oaths,  a  violent  quarrel,  the 
crash  of  overturned  chairs,  the  gleam  of  steel,  the  flash  of  guns, 
the  stream  of  life-blood,  the  groans  of  dying  men? 

Oh,  well,  it  might  have  happened,  anywhere.  The  hearts 
of  mothers  and  fathers,  I  wrench  with  pain:  the  souls  of  wives, 
I  darken  in  woe.  I  smite  the  mansion,  and  there  are  wounds 
that  gold  cannot  salve:  the  hut  I  invade,  and  poverty  sinks  into 
deeper  pits. 

I  sow  and  I  till,  and  I  reap  where  I  sow,  and  my  harvest 
— is  what? 

Men  so  brutalized  that  all  of  humanity  is  lost,  save  the  phj^- 
sical  shape — men  reeking  with  moral  filth,  stony  of  heart,  bestial 
in  vice — men  who  hear  the  name  of  God  with  a  wrathful  stare, 
or  a  burst  of  scornful  mirth;  men  who  listen  to  the  death-rattle 
of  any  victim  of  their  greed  or  their  lusts,  without  a  sign  of  pity. 

And  the  women,  too!     How  can  I  fitly  sing  of  the  Woman 

(88) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  89 

of  my  harvest-time?  Did  you  ever  hear  her  huigh?  It  must 
be  the  favorite  music  of  the  damned.  Did  you  ever  hear  her 
ribald  talk?  The  very  sewers  might  shrink  at  bearing  it  away. 
Have  you  ever  heard  her  libidinous  songs?  Did  you  ever  watch 
her  eyes — those  defiant,  mocking,  hopeless,  shameless  eyes? 

What  warriors  have  I  not  vanquished?  What  statesmen  have 
I  not  laid  low?  How  many  a  Burns  and  Poe  have  I  not  dragged 
down  from  ethereal  heights?  How  many  a  Sidney  Carton  h.ave 
I  not  made  to  weep  for  a  wasted  life?  How  many  times  have 
I  caused  the  ermine  to  be  drawn  through  the  mud? 

Strong  am  I — irresistibly  strong. 

Samson-like,  I  strain  at  the  foundations  of  character;  and 
they  come  toppling  down,  in  irremediable  ruin.  I  am  the  can- 
cer, beautiful  to  behold,  and  eating  my  remorseless  way  into 
the  vitals  of  the  world.  I  am  the  pestilence,  stalking  my  victims 
to  the  cottage  door  and  to  the  palace  gate.  No  respecter  of 
persons,  I  gloat  over  richly-garbed  victims  no  more  than  over' 
the  man  of  the  blouse. 

The  Church,  I  empty  it:  the  Jail,  I  fill  it:  the  Gallov/s,  I 
feed  it.  From  me  and  my  blazing  lights,  run  straight  the  dark 
roads  to  the  slums,  the  prisons,  to  the  bread-lines,  to  the  mad- 
house, to  the  Potter's  Field. 

I  undo  the  work  of  the  School.  I  cut  the  ground  from  under 
Law  and  Order.  I'm  the  seed-bed  of  Poverty,  Vice  and  Crime. 
I'm  the  Leper  who  buys  toleration,  and  who  has  not  to  cry 
"Unclean!"  I'm  the  Licensed  ally-of-Sin.  I  buy  from  the  State, 
the  right  to  lay  dynamite  under  its  foundations.  For  a  price, 
they  give  me  the  power  to  nullify  the  work  of  law-makers,  mag- 
istrates and  rulers.  For  a  handful  of  gold,  I  am  granted  Letters- 
of-marque,  to  sail  every  human  sea  and  prey  upon  its  life-boats. 

Huge  battleships  they  build,  casing  them  triply  with  hard- 
ened steel;  and  huge  guns  they  mount  on  these  floating  ram- 
parts, until  a  file  of  Dreadnaughts  line  the  coast — for  what? 
To  be  ready  for  perils  that  may  never  come.  But  I  give  them 
a  pitiful  purse;  and,  in  return,  they  issue  to  me  the  lawful 
rights  to  unmask  my  batteries  on  every  square;  and  my  guns 
play  upon  humanity,  every  day  and  every  night,  of  every  year. 
And  were  my  Destroyers  spread  out  upon  the  Sea,  they  would 
cover  the  face  thereof. 

Around  that  grief-bowed  woman,  /  threw  the  weeds  of  widow- 
hood— but  I  paid  for  the  chance  to  do  it;  and  they  who  took  my 
money  knew  that  I  uiould  do  it. 

To  the  lips  of  that  desolate  child,  /  brought  the  wail  of  the 
orphan — but  I  bought  the  right  to  do  it;  and  they  who  sold  me 
the  right,  knew  luhat  would  come  of  it. 

Yes!     I  inflamed  the  murderer:   I  maddened  the  suicide:   I 


90 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES 


made  a  brute  of  the  husband:  I  made  a  diabolical  hag  out  of 
the  once  beautiful  girl:  I  made  a  criminal  out  of  the  once  prom- 
ising boy:  I  replaced  sobriety  and  comfort,  })y  drunkenness  and 


THE    SOULS    OF    WIVES,    I    DARKEN    IN    WOE 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  91 

pauperism — but  don't  blame  Me:  blame  those  from  whom  I 
pui'chascd  the  legal  right  to  do  it. 

No  Roman  Emperor  ever  dragged  at  his  chariot  wheels, 
on  the  day  of  his  Triumph,  such  multitudes  of  captives  as  grace 
my  train.  Tamerlane's  marches  of  devastation  were  as  naught 
beside  my  steady  advance  over  the  conquered  millions.  The 
Csesars  and  the  Attilas  come  and  go — comets  whose  advents 
mean  death  and  destruction,  for  a  season:  but  I  go  on  forever, 
and  I  take  my  ghastly  toll  from  all  tJiat  come  to  mill. 

In  civilization's  ocean,  I  am  the  builder  of  the  coral  reef  on 
which  the  ship  goes  down:  of  its  citadel,  I'm  the  traitor  who 
lets  the  enemy  in:  of  its  progress,  I'm  the  fetter  and  the  clog: 
of  its  heaven,  I'm  the  hell. 


The  Vulture 


TLT  AS  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  the  law  of  compensation  is 
•^■^  illustrated  perfectly,  in  the  case  of  the  obscure,  ungainly 
buzzard? 

Think  of  it  a  moment.  He  has  no  enemies:  envy,  jealousy, 
unreasoning  prejudice,  aim  no  poisoned  shafts  at  him:  no  other 
bird  wants  his  job,  and  he  himself  is  contented  with  it. 

True,  he  has  no  friends,  but  he  doesn't  appear  to  need  any. 
He  is  perfectly  independent — and  he  knows  that,  as  long  as 
Death  endures,  he  will  have  enough  to  eat.  As  to  wearing- 
apparel,  his  remain  on  the  free  list.  He  bothers  nobody's  busi- 
ness, and  nobody  bothers  his.  Of  all  creation,  he  enjoys  the 
exclusive  luxury  of  being  left  alone. 

Look  upward  into  the  heavens  above  you,  some  sunny  day 
of  summer — away  up  yonder,  almost  out  of  sight,  there  is  the 
buzzard,  circling  slowly,  steadily,  serenely  around;  the  only  un- 
concerned living  creature  that  your  eyes  can  perceive. 

The  other  birds  are  all  uneasy  about  something.  They  all 
have  enemies.  The  law  of  their  lives  is,  eternal  vigilance.  They 
dare  not  feed,  or  bathe,  or  fly,  or  perch,  without  scanning  nar- 
rowly the  surroundings,  in  which  may  lurk  the  snake,  the  hawk, 
the  cat.  They  live  in  constant  fear:  they  start  at  every  sound. 
Their  foes  are  legion;  and  after  a  harassing  day  of  continual 
peril  and  narrow  escapes,  the  owl,  or  coon,  or  'possum,  or  rat 
may  clutch  them  where  they  roost,  at  night. 

Not  so  the  vulture.  He  hasn't  a  care,  or  a  fear  on  liis  mind. 
He  sails  composedly  through  the  cerulean  sea,  loftily  secure. 

-X-  *****  * 

There  are  the  beasts  of  the  field — they  all  have  their  ene- 
mies, their  anxieties,  their  conflicts.  Lion  assails  lion,  tiger  rends 
tiger,  serpents  battle  with  serpents,  the  great  stolid  ox  shivers 
with  fright,  when  he  sees  the  glittering  eyes  of  the  snake  in  the 
grass;  torturing  swarms  of  insects  pursue  to  madness  the  help- 
less quadrupeds:  the  hog  devours  the  kid  and  the  lamb;  and 
the  wolf,  the  bear,  the  fox  and  the  man  devour  the  hog. 
Throughout  animated  nature,  the  strife  is  incessant.  Nature's 
law — inexorable  and  universal  and  unchangeable — makes  the 
weak  the  food  of  the  strong,  makes  the  stomach  an  insatiable 
sepulchre,  sends  the  resistless  roots  of  life  deep  down  into  the 
fertile  soil  of  Death. 

Not  so  the  buzzard.    Nothing  feeds  on  him — he  feeds  upon 

(92) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  93 

everything.  He  doesn't  have  to  work  for  a  living,  nor  stalk  his 
prey,  nor  swoop  hawk-like  for  his  dinner  of  quail,  or  his  supper  of 
spring  chicken.  He  doesn't  have  to  crawl  on  his  belly  and  ser- 
])entine  his  way  over  meadow  and  fallowfield,  on  the  hunt  for 
mice,  or  bird-eggs,  or  young  rabbits,  or  nestlings. 

No,  indeed.  Others  provide  his  food.  Sailing  peacefully, 
evenly,  without  visible  beat  of  wing,  floating  with  no  apparent 
effort,  circling  in  fixed  orbit,  as  though  he  were  himself  some 
black-sheep  member  of  the  distant  constellations — the  vulture 
bides  his  time.  He  isn't  worried  about  anything.  Where  his 
next  meal  will  come  from  is  a  matter  of  no  disquieting  anxieties. 
He  knoius  that  it  will  come — and  he  sails,  round  and  round,  in 
a  fathomless,  shoreless,  radiant  sea. 

Consider  the  ocean  and  they  that  dwell  within  it:  can  you 
find  security  and  peace  and  rest?  From  the  tiniest  mullet  to 
the  monsters  of  the  deep,  there  is  war — unending,  merciless  war. 
Never  will  you  put  your  eyes  upon  the  fish  that  isn't  nervous, 
watchful,  in  dread  of  the  enemy.  Never  will  you  find  one  that 
isn't  afraid.  Everlasting  caution,  eternal  effort,  ceaseless  ac- 
tivity— is  the  price  he  pays  to  live.  In  those  treacherous  depths, 
what  battles  rage,  what  massacres  take  place,  what  ferocities 
of  attack  and  pursuit,  what  agonies  of  flight,  or  defense  there 
are!  What  anguish  of  futile  effort  to  escape  there  is,  when  the 
squadron  of  sharks  encompass  the  whale,  or  pursue  the  dreaded 
swordfish;  and  what  a  ghastly  combat  that  is  when  the  sharks 
fight  over  the  prey,  and  wounded  sharks  are  beset  by  sharks ! 

And  that  which  we  see  among  the  birds  of  the  air,  the  beasts 
of  the  field,  the  fishes  of  the  sea,  is  faithfully  duplicated  in  the 
life  of  man.  There  is  no  peace  anywhere,  nor  rest,  nor  security, 
nor  freedom  from  care  and  fear.  The  rivalries  of  business,  the 
inroads  of  disease,  the  enmities  which  luxuriate  along  the  path, 
the  dread  of  tomorrow,  the  terrors  of  the  unknown  regions  that 
lie  beyond  the  dim  river — ah,  who  is  free  from  thrall? 

Worn  out  by  the  battle  and  the  march,  the  straggler  may 
fall  by  the  wayside,  crawl  into  a  corner  and  seek  rest.  He  will 
not  find  it.  Nobody  has  ever  found  it.  Those  who  are  per- 
fectly sure  that  they're  saved,  leave  their  mansion  in  the  New 
Jerusalem  vacant,  just  as  long  as  possible.  Human  saints  who 
tell  us,  most  positively,  that  they  will  walk  the  golden  streets 
and  harp  with  angels,  stick  to  our  dirt-roads  with  piteous  tenacity 
and  reveal  a  singular  preference  for  the  mundane  phonograph  and 
piano. 

No,  brethren!  Let  us  deal  honestly  by  one  another,  and 
make  the  confession  that's  good  for  the  soul.  We  are  a  lot  of 
cowards.  We  could  hardly  be  anything  else.  From  the  cradle 
to  the  grave,  we  are  surrounded  by  hobgoblins,  imaginary  terrors 


94  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

and  real  dangers.  A  part  of  our  childish  training  consisted 
of  elaborate  efforts  to  undermine  our  native  good  sense.  Civil- 
ized creatures  that  we  are — we  frighten  our  own  children,  de- 
stroy their  self-confidence,  sap  their  inherent  strength  of  mind 
and  character,  feed  them  on  Booger-man  stories,  poisoning  the 
very  fountains  of  thought  with  fictions  and  superstitions — and 
the  marvel  is,  not  that  so  many  are  permanently  enfeebled  or 
enslaved,  but  that  anybody  ever  emancipates  himself.  So  in- 
grained becomes  the  fear  of  the  dark  and  the  mysterious,  that 
the  bravest  of  men  will  quake  in  uncontrollable  panic  if,  at  night, 
he  hears  sounds  that  are  different  from  anything  he  ever  heard 
before — sounds  that  he  cannot  connect  with  any  ordinary  oc- 
currence. He  immediately  imagines  some  nameless  horror,  and 
his  hair  stands  on  end.  He  isn't  afraid  of  any  human  being,  he 
isn't  afraid  to  die,  but  he  is  afraid  of  that  unearthly  sound,  be- 
cause it  has  aroused  the  slumbering  cowardice  that  was  injected 
into  him  by  ghost  stories  when  he  was  a  child! 

So  it  happens,  that  while  most  people  who  have  been  sick, 
and  who  have  gradually  weakened,  are  not  afraid  to  die — let 
sudden  death  confront  anybody,  saint  or  sinner,  and  you  will 
see  that  the  grimiest  log  cabin  is  passionately  preferred  to  the 
best  of  those  mansions  in  the  skies. 

Yes,  we  are  all  cowards;  if  not  afraid  of  one  thing,  we  are 
of  something  else;  and  much  of  it  is  due  to  the  wretched  sys- 
tem of  dealing  with  the  child. 

And  so,  when  I  seek  a  picture  of  repose,  I  look  upward  and 
gaze  upon  the  buzzard,  peacefully  engaged  in  drawing  invisible 
circles  in  the  upper  air.  The  hubbub  in  the  marts  of  trade  are 
nothing  to  him.  The  fierce  rivalries  of  men  affect  him  not.  Is 
the  world  at  peace?  His  rations  will  not  be  cut  off,  or  shortened. 
Are  the  nations  at  war?  So  much  the  better  for  him.  Is  it  a 
year  of  bountiful  harvests?  He  will  not  go  unfed.  Does  famine 
smite  the  people?    It  has  no  terrors  for  him. 

The  storm  comes  up  from  far  away,  and  thunderclouds  ob- 
scure the  sun;  he  either  rides  with  the  gale  as  if  he  loved  it, 
or  soars  above  the  tumult,  and  lets  it  pass  below. 

Some  day  you  will  hear  a  rush  of  sound,  the  volume  start- 
lingly  strong,  and  you  will  look  up  in  surprise— it  is  the  buzzard 
having  his  fun,  apparently,  by  taking  a  headlong  dive  into  space. 
So  then  this  unclean,  unsociable,  isolated  bird  actually  possesses 
a  sense  of  enjoyment,  in  addition  to  his  unlimited  fund  of  solemn 
self-conceit. 

Poor  old  weather-beaten  mariner  of  the  skies!  Tireless 
swimmer  of  the  invisible  waves!  Lone  sentry  of  the  trackless 
beat!     You  are  not  pretty,  and  you  probably  smell  bad,  and 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  95 

you  eat  in  a  way  that  we  despise — although  we  daily  devour 
dead  things  ourselves — you  have  never  had  a  ivrite-up  by  one 
who  appreciates  your  advantages  and  sympathized  with'  your 
limitations. 

Well,  you've  got  one,  at  last,  such  as  it  is. 


The  Wine  Cup 


I 


T  IS  a  warrior  whom  no  victory  can  satisfy,  no  ruin  satiate. 

It  pauses  at  no  Rubicon  to  consider,  pitches  no  tents  at 
night-fall,  goes  into  no  quarters  for  winter.  It  conquers  amid 
the  burning  plains  of  the  South,  where  the  phalanx  of  Alexander 
halted  in  mutiny.  It  conquers  amid  the  snowdrifts  of  the  North, 
where  the  Grand  Army  of  Napoleon  found  its  winding  sheet.  Its 
monuments  are  in  every  burial  ground.  Its  badges  of  triumph 
are  the  weeds  which  mourners  wear.  Its  song  of  victory  is  the 
wail  that  w^as  heard  in  Ramah:  "Rachel  crying  for  her  chil- 
dren, and  weeping  because  they  are  not." 

It  never  buries  the  hatchet;  its  temple  of  Janus  never  closes 
its  doors.  No  dove  of  peace  ever  carries  its  message;  in  its 
hand  is  never  the  olive  branch.  It  sends  no  flag  of  truce,  and 
receives  none;  its  wounded  are  left  where  they  fall,  and  its  dead 
bury  their  dead.  Every  citadel  that  it  storms,  it  devastates; 
and  in  every  charge  which  it  makes,  its  cry  is,  "No  Quarter." 

Those  who  fall  before  its  onset,  die  deaths  of  shame;  and 
they  go  down  to  dishonored  graves  to  which  love  can  bring  no 
willing  tribute  of  flowers,  and  over  which  pride  can  rear  no 
enduring  monument.  To  its  prisoners  it  grants  no  exchange, 
holds  them  to  no  ransom,  but  clutches  them  fast,  in  a  captivity 
that  is  worse  than  death,  and  which  ends  only  at  the  grave. 

The  sword  is  mighty,  and  its  bloody  traces  reach  across 
time,  from  Nineveh  to  Gravelotte,  from  Marathon  to  Gettys- 
burg. Yet  mightier  is  its  brother,  the  wine-cup.  I  say  "brother," 
and  history  says  "brother."  Castor  and  Pollux  never  fought 
together  in  more  fraternal  harmony.  David  and  Jonathan  never 
joined  in  more  generous  rivalry.  Hand  in  hand,  they  have  come 
down  the  centuries,  and  upon  every  scene  of  carnage,  like  vulture 
and  shadow,  they  have  met  and  feasted. 

Yea:  a  pair  of  giants,  but  the  greater  is  the  wine-cup.  The 
sword  has  a  scabbard,  and  is  sheathed;  has  a  conscience,  and 
becomes  glutted  with  havoc;  has  pity,  and  gives  quarter  to  the 
vanquished.  The  wine-cup  has  no  scabbard  and  no  conscience, 
its  appetite  is  a  cancer  which  grows  as  you  feed  it;  to  pity,  it 
is  deaf;  to  suffering,  it  is  blind. 

The  sword  is  the  Lieutenant  of  Death;  but  the  wine-cup  is 
his  Captain;  and  if  ever  they  come  home  to  him  from  their 
wars,  bringing  their  trophies,  boasting  of  their  achievements, 

(96) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  97 

I  can  imagine  that  Death,  their  master,  will  meet  them  with 
garlands  and  song,  as  the  maidens  of  Judca  met  Saul  and  David. 
But  as  he  numbers  the  victims  of  each,  his  pa^an  will  be:  "The 
sword  is  my  Saul,  who  has  slain  his  thousands;  but  the  wine- 
cup  is  my  David,  who  has  slain  his  tens  of  thousands." 


Toward  the  Light 

TyHEN  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  was  lying  on  his  death- 
^^  bed,  he  was  very  calm  and  resigned;  he  had  always  been 
a  kind-hearted  man;  had  always  been  a  gentle  man, — and  so, 
when  he  came  to  die,  he  was  not  afraid.  He  had  worked  won- 
ders in  his  way.  The  tireless  hand,  pushing  the  pen,  which,  in 
his  youth,  a  neighbor  had  seen  through  the  window  that  morn- 
ing in  Edinburgh,  had  written  on,  and  written  on,  until  the  books 
had  grown  into  a  library,  and  all  the  world  was  reading — even 
as  it  does  today. 

He  had  toiled  much,  enjoyed  much,  suffered  much, — and 
the  last  time  that  the  old  literateur  had  gone  to  the  polls,  he 
had  been  hooted  by  his  neighbors,  his  vote  having  been  antag- 
onistic to  theirs. 

Then  he  went  back  to  Abbotsford,  sorrowing;  and  soon  after- 
wards laid  him  down  to  die. 

His  son-in-law,  Lockhart,  an  author  of  world-wide  fame 
himself,  was  a  different  sort  of  man.  Bitter  and  cynical,  he  had 
slight  capacity  for  friendship ;  appeared  to  take  a  delight  in 
giving  poisoned  wounds;  had  numberless  feuds,  and  no  recon- 
ciliations; had  few  intimates  and  few  friends;  and  faced,  witli 
inflexibility  and  scorn,  a  host  of  enemies. 

As  the  misanthropic  Lockhart  leaned  over  the  death-bed, 
the  dying  Scott  said  to  him: 

"Be  a  GOOD  man,  my  dear;  he  a  GOOD  man.  It  is  the 
only  thing  that  can  give  you  comjort,  when  you  come  to  lie  here." 

Not  riches,  not  place  and  power,  not  fame,  not  great  deeds 
of  any  sort, — only  the  good  works,  they  alone  can  soften  the 
pillow  for  the  dying  head- 
Sent  into  this  terribly  complex  life,  by  the  unknown  and 
unknowable,  we  are  cursed  by  the  universal  sin,  and  must  strug- 
gle, if  we  reach  the  light.  Something  within  us  tells  us  that  it 
is  better  to  do  right,  better  to  be  honest  and  true,  better  to  resist 
evil  than  to  embrace  it. 

We  can  not  help  the  occasional  fall, — we  are  just  human, 
with  hearts  that  are  desperately  wicked.  But  we  must  not  stay 
down.  That's  the  pomt,— TF^  MUST  NOT  STAY  DOWN. 
When  I  was  a  young  man,  twenty  years  old,  I  entered  my 
first  political  fight,  a  petty  local  affair.  With  all  the  hot  zeal 
of  inexperienced  youth,  I  worked  for  victory.    Our  side  got  the 

(98) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  99 

worst  whipping  you  ever  saw.  Awfully  cut  up  about  it,  I  was 
sitting  on  the  sidewalk,  filled  with  despair,  believing  that  I  was 
ruined.  An  older  man,  seeing  my  distress  and  sympathizing 
with  it,  said  to  me: 

"Rise,  and  come  again!" 

Immediately  the  load  was  lightened,  and  the.  fit  of  blues 
soon  passed  away. 

Ever  since  then,  that  word  of  encouragement  has  never  ceased 
to  be  a  benefit  to  me.  After  every  one  of  my  many  defeats  and 
falls,  there  would  come  the  momentary  collapse.  "What's  the 
use?  Fate  is  against  you.  You  are  attempting  the  impossible. 
You  don't  amount  to  a  row  of  pins,  anyway.  Tender  your  sword. 
You  are  down  and  out." 

So  whispers  the  evil  spirit,  and  it  almost  gets  me  sometimes 
— but  not  quite. 

Always  I  hear  the  words  of  George  McCord  (dead  these 
many  years  ago),  "Don't  give  way  to  it.  RISE,  AND  COME 
AGAIN."  So  I  brush  the  dust  off,  bandage  the  wounds,  and 
go  at  it  again. 

When  I  come  to  face  my  Father,  I  want  to  be  able  to  say 
to  Him: 

"Father,  take  pity  on  me — it  was  You  who  made  me  just 
what  I  was.  With  all  my  raging  passions  and  disfiguring  im- 
perfections, You  sent  me  into  the  wicked  world,  where  there 
was  so  much  that  I  could  not  understand.  I  know  that  I've 
sinned,  deeply  and  repeatedly,  but,  oh,  my  Father!  I  did  try 
to  please  You.  Often  guilty  of  wrongdoing,  I  strove  ever  to 
get  right,  and  stay  right.  I've  done  the  very  best  I  could — 
to  be  a  just  man,  a  high-minded  man,  a  pure  man,  a  good  man." 

If,  at  the  end  of  the  chapter,  I  can  still  say  that, — as  I  can 
up  to  now, — I  won't  be  the  least  bit  afraid  of  Him.  I  know,  in 
my  inmost  soul,  that  He  will  forgive  me  the  sins  that  I  could 
not  help  committing,  and  that  He  will  not  doom  me  with  His 
eternal,  implacable  frown. 


The  Country  Wife 

{An  effort  loas  being  made  to  s.ecure  an  appropriation  of  $10,- 
000  jor  the  purpose  of  senditig  city  women  to  improve  the  wives 
of  country  folk.) 

A  S  TO  asking  the  aid  of  the  Georgia  Legislature  to  make 
better  wives  and  mothers  of  the  country  women  of  this 
State:  I  have  rarely  known  a  subject  more  difficult  to  discuss 
patiently  within  the  bounds  of  moderation.  There  are  thou- 
sands of  devoted  and  absolutely  admirable  wives  and  mothers 
in  our  cities,  in  our  towns,  and  in  our  villages,  and  it  gives  me 
pleasure  and  pride  to  testify  to  the  fact;  but  if  you  ask  me  to 
carry  you  to  the  home  of  the  true  wife  and  the  true  mother, 
one  who  loses  herself  entirely  in  the  existence  of  her  husband 
and  children,  one  who  is  the  first  to  rise  in  the  morning,  and 
the  last  to  retire  at  night,  one  who  is,  always  at  her  post  of  duty, 
and  the  one  who  carries  upon  her  shoulders  the  burdens  of 
both  husband  and  children,  one  who  is  keeper  of  the  household 
and  the  good  angel  of  it,  utterly  unselfish,  happy  in  making 
others  happy,  with  no  thought  of  seeing  her  name  in  the  papers, 
no  thought  of  fashionable  pleasure,  perfectly  content  in  quiet 
home  life,  in  which  she  does  nobody  harm  and  everybody  much 
good,  taking  as  many  thorns  as  she  can  from  the  pathway  of 
her  husband  and  strewing  it  with  as  many  roses  as  possible, 
strengthening  him  by  her  inspiration  as  he  goes  forward  to  fight 
the  battles  of  life,  smoothing  the  pillow  upon  which  he  rests 
his  tired  head  when  he  comes  home,  tenderly  rearing  the  boys 
and  girls  who  will  in  turn  go  away  from  the  door  some  day  for 
the  last  time — the  boy  to  become  a  good  soldier  in  life's  con- 
tinuous warfare,  and  the  girl  to  become  some  ardent  suitor's 
wife  and  to  be  to  him  what  her  mother  has  been  to  her  father; 
and  who,  when  all  toils  are  done  and  her  strength  is  departing, 
will  sit  calmly  in  the  doorway,  watching  the  setting  sun,  with  a 
serene  smile  upon  her  face,  and  never  a  fear  in  her  heart — ask 
me  to  find  where  this  woman  lives,  where  this  type  is  to  be  found, 
and  I  will  make  a  bee-line  for  the  country. 


100) 


The  Path  of  Glory 

TN  SIR  WILLIAM  FRASER'S  book,  "Disraeli  and  His  Day," 

we  find  this  passage: 

"Like  men  who  have  a  real  knowledge  and  ai)i)re('iation  of 
true  poetry,  Disraeli  was  a  great  admirer  of  (iray.  He  said 
to  me  with  great  fervour,  'Byron  visited  Greece;  he  walked  on 
Olympus;  he  drank  from  Castalia;  there  was  everything  to  in- 
spire him.  Gray  never  was  in  Greece  in  his  life;  yet  he  wrote 
finer  lines  than  Byron: 

"  'Woods  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steeiK 

Isles  that  crown  the  Aegean  deep; 
Fields  that  cool  Illyssus  laves, 
Or  where  Mseander's  amber  waves 

In  lingering  labyrinths  creep.' 

"He  pronounced  the  last  line  very  slowly. 

"On  another  occasion,  I  asked  him  which  he  athnircd  most 
of  the  stanzas  of  'Gray's  Elegy.'  He  replied,  'That  will  recjuire 
a  good  deal  of  thinking.'  He  added,  'You  have  made  up  your 
mind?'    'Yes.' 

"The  boast  of  Heraldry;  the  pomp  of  Power 
And  all  that  Beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave. 
Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour: 

The  paths  of  Glory  lead  but  to  the  Grave." 

I  have  often  heard  this  stanza  from  Gray's  "Elegy  in  a 
Country  Churchyard,"  used  for  the  purpose  of  discouraging  ambi- 
tion, in  my  judgment,  the  poet  had  no  such  intention.  He 
meant  merely  to  give  expression  to  that  thought  which  the 
Romans  had  in  mind  when  they  ])laced  in  the  chariot  of  the  con- 
queror, on  the  day  of  his  triumph,  an  attendant  whose  duty  it 
was  to  repeat  from  time  to  time  in  the  ear  of  the  victor,  "But 
remember  that  you  are  mortal."  The  same  thought  was  in  the 
mind  of  the  Orientals,  who  dragged  a  mummy  case  through  the 
banquet  hall  where  revelers  were  feasting. 

Properly  understood,  there  is  in  all  this  no  discouragement 
to  honorable  ambition.  True,  the  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the 
grave,  but  whither  leads  any  other  i)ath?  The  law-giver,  after 
all  his  toil  and  all  the  splendor  of  the  civic  crown,  sinks  to  the 

(101) 


102  PRO&E  MISCELLANIES 

dust;  but  equally  so  does  the  thoughtless,  aimless  boor,  who 
had  no  care  beyond  his  pig-stey. 

The  warrior,  after  the  battles  have  been  fought  and  won, 
after  the  dash  of  onset,  the  thrill  of  contest,  the  hot  wine  of 
triumph,  sleeps  coldly  and  alone;  but  equally  dismal  is  the  fate 
of  the  coward  cur  who  wounded  himself  with  an  imaginary 
bullet,  shirked  the  fight,  and  lived,  the  scorn  of  mankind. 

There  was  once  an  Indian  Chief,  celebrated  in  the  mountains 
of  North  Georgia.  Some  one  asked  him  the  way  to  his  home. 
The  red  man  haughtily  answered,  "I  go  home  along  the  moun- 
tain tops." 

To  each  one  of  us  comes  the  hour  when  we  meet 
"The  shadow  cloaked  from  head  to  foot, 
Who  bears  the  key  of  all  tlie  creeds." 

To  me,  it  seems  far  more  noble,  far  more  inspiring,  to  have  the 
inevitable  meeting  somewhere  in  the  pathway  that  leads  us  home 
along  the  mountain  tops. 


Is  It  Worth  the  Price? 

T^HE  WORLD  is  full  of  young  men  who  are  panting  to  throw 
-*■  off  the  restraints  of  youth  and  enter  into  the  battle  of 
life.  In  every  class-room,  there  is  at  least  one  boy  who  nurses 
the  profound  belief  that  he  is  "the  coming  man,"  and  that  he 
will  open  a  new  chapter  in  the  book  of  human  achievement. 

In  the  Court-house  he  will  win  eases  which  Toombs,  or  Ben 
Butler,  or  Daniel  Webster,  would  have  lost. 

In  medicine,  he  will  cure  where  Pasteur,  or  Koch,  or  Battey 
would  have  killed. 

In  science,  he  will  make  Humboldt  and  Spencer  and  Huxley 
and  Darwin  appear  pigmies. 

As  an  Orator,  he  will  spell-bind,  where  Phillips  or  Prentiss 
would  have  put  to  sleep.  As  a  Statesman,  he  will  begin  where 
Gladstone  left  off.  As  a  Warrior,  the  first  "round"  in  his  lad- 
der of  glory  will  be  an  Austerlitz  or  a  Jena. 

When  I  was  at  college,  this  "Coming  Man,"  was  in  every 
class.  In  fact,  there  were  two  or  three  of  him  in  every  class. 
And,  of  course,  I  was  one  of  him,  myself. 

That  was  long  ago, — so  long  ago  that  when  I  met  one  of 
"the  coming  men"  of  these  college  days  a  few  weeks  since,  I 
found  him  as  gray  and  as  subdued  as  a  still,  drizzly  day  in 
October.  He  was  traveling  about,  selling  a  new  edition  of  an 
excellent  Cookbook. 

This  feverish,  desperate  contest  for  Fame  and  Wealth  and 
Position — is  the  reward  worth  the  labor? 

Is  there  any  "reward"  at  all,  in  the  success  achieved,  which 
brightens  the  home,  gladdens  the  heart,  and  fills  the  soul's  de- 
sire with  satisfaction? 

In  the  hub-bub  talk  about  you,  which  the  world  calls  Fame, 
how  many  of  the  talkers  are  men  whose  good  oi")inion  is  of 
actual  value?  And  how  many  of  these  worthiest  of  people  are 
citizens  whose  good  opinion  is  so  indispensable  to  you,  that  you 
would  work  your  legs  off  and  your  heart  out  to  get  it? 

What  is  that  good  opinion  going  to  do  for  you,  that  you 
should  turn  your  days  into  days  of  drudgery  and  your  nights 
into  sleepless  vigils  of  anxious  thought?  What  are  you  going 
to  get  out  of  it,  that  repays  you  for  the  health  and  the  peace 
and  the  happiness  it  costs? 

Napoleon  believed  that  Fame  was  the  only  immortality.  He 
had  no  belief  in  the  soul. 

(103) 


104  PROSE  MrSCELLANIES 

Yet,  after  toiling  so  hard  over  his  books  that  he  stunted  his 
growth;  after  reaching  supreme  power  by  such  a  career  of  blood, 
hypocrisy,  selfishness,  genius,  labor,  lies  and  good  luck,  as  the 
world  never  saw  before;  after  carrying  his  triumphant  eagles 
from  Cairo  to  Moscow,  he  had  the  mortification  to  learn  that 
there  were  people  living,  even  in  France,  who  had  never  heard 
of  him.  . 

Where  there  is  one  man  in  the  world  today  who  has  any 
clear  idea  as  to  who  Napoleon  was,  there  are  forty  thousand 
who  do  not.  Once  upon  a  time  a  very  prominent  burgher  of 
the  town  where  I  live, — a  man  of  eminent  respectability  and 
intelligence, — closed  a  harangue  I  had  been  making  to  him  on 
the  subject  of  Napoleon's  greatness,  by  asking  me,  with  the 
utmost  seriousness,  if  Napoleon  was  dead. 

What  was  there  in  the  splendid  fame  he  won,  which  made  it 
easy  for  Henry  Grady  to  give  up  his  young  life? 

What  is  there  in  it  that  Bill  Nye  should  work  himself  to 
death — killing  himself  to  supply  the  public  with  fun? 

Where  is  the  recompense  which  repays  to  the  slave  of  am- 
bition for  the  loss  of  the  sunny  days  in  the  fields,  the  myriad 
voices  of  the  autumn  woods,  and  the  leisure  hours  at  the  fire- 
side of  a  happy  home? 

Shall  there  be  no  rest  for  weary  feet,  in  this  mad  race  for 
Fame  and  Wealth  and  Position?  Shall  there  be  no  furlough 
from  this  all-devouring  army? 

Shall  there  never  come  a  time  when  the  rainy  day  is  mine, 
and  the  long,  sweet  hours  in  the  quiet  library? 

Shall  the  fever  of  pursuit  so  entirely  enslave  us  that  there 
shall  be  no  hour  which  belongs  to  friendship,  none  belonging 
to  solitude  and  reflection,  none,  to  memory,  and  to  the  sacred 
teachings  of  Regret? 

A  great  man  once  said  to  me,  'We  are  not  judged  by  char- 
acter, but  by  reputation." 

Just  so:  and  perhaps  that's  the  very  reason  why  it  is  worth 
while  to  stress  the  fact  that  the  reputation  is  not  worth  the 
price  we  pay  for  it — for  surely  the  real  value  of  the  mari  is  his 
character,  and  not  his  reputation. 

Get  all  the  fame  that  flows  from  a  good  life.  Such  fame  is 
as  healthy  as  the  light  that  pours  from  a  star — as  unfeverish 
as  the  breath  of  a  rose,  or  the  song  of  a  bird.  Such  a  fame  is 
but  the  halo  that  follows  sterling  worth. 

Get  all  the  money  you  honestly  can.  You  owe  it  to  your- 
self and  those  who  depend  on  you  to  bring  the  vessel  into  port, 
if  you  can — safe  from  the  storm. 

The  man  who  says  he  loves  being  poor,  is  a  liar,  and  he  takes 
you  for  a  fool — else  he  wouldn't  tell  you  so. 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  105 

Win  Position  in  life,  if  you  feci  that  Duty  calls  for  you  there. 

No  man  should  undcr-rate  the  importance  of  Fame,  of  Wealth, 
or  of  Position: — but  the  man  who  pays  his  health  and  his  happi- 
ness and  his  life  for  them,  pays  too  much. 


The  Late 


"DEADER,  did  you  ever  run  over  the  pages  of  a  magazine, 

scanning  items  of  news,  dipping  into  heated  controversies, 
pausing  at  the  love-stories,  as  a  humming  bird  would  at  a 
flower,  and  suddenly  find  yourself  at  the  last  page,  where  the 
editor  chronicles  the  list  of  "The  Late?" 

Who  are  "The  Late?"  They  are  the  men  who  have  acted 
their  part,  and  have  left  the  stage.  They  are  the  dead.  Last 
month,  they  were  full  of  life — working,  quarrelling,  loving, 
hating,  scheming,  dreaming,  planning  for  indefinite  futures,  as 
though  all  Time  was  theirs.  They  read  the  Magazine  last  month, 
just  as  you  are  doing  this  month.  They  scanned  the  news, 
dipped  into  the  discussions,  laughed  at  the  jokes,  lingered  with 
the  lovers,  and  sighed  over  the  chronicles  of  "The  Late."  Then 
they  closed  the  book — and  now  their  life-books  are  closed; 
and  THEY  join  the  lists  of  "The  Late,"  which  you  and  I  are,  this 
month,  to  read  and  to  sigh  over. 

How  sad  it  all  is. 

Last  month  here  was  a  scholar,  delving  deep  into  the  hidden 
lore  of  granite  rocks,  of  dust  laden  manuscripts,  of  ruined  tem- 
ples, of  monumental  inscriptions  leading  back  into  hoary  ages 
of  the  Past, — and  now  his  nerveless  hands  are  crossed,  and  his 
eager  feet  hurry  no  longer  after  knowledge.  Last  month  he  was 
a  palpitating  actuality,  all  ablaze  with  hope  and  purpose:  this 
month  he  heads  the  list  of  "The  Late." 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  an  author,  one  who  had  long 
been  suitor  to  fame:  one  who  had  toiled  and  fought  grim  pov- 
erty and  cold  neglect.  Year  after  year,  he  had  struggled  up- 
ward to  the  light — falling  back  again  with  many  a  sickening  dis- 
appointment. 

But  at  last,  as  the  silver  threads  began  to  streak  his  head, 
a  sudden  sun-burst  of  Fame  was  his.  The  storm  lifted,  and 
the  haven  was  there.  The  wilderness  ended,  and  the  labor  of 
travel  was  over.  Poverty  fled,  and  golden  ducats  rained.  Neg- 
lect vanished  and  the  world  crowded  upon  him  with  plaudits, 
with  the  eager  offerings  of  universal  Fame. 

All  this  was  last  month.  Your  whole  heart  went  out  to  the 
storm-tossed  mariner  who  had  so  joyfully  made  port.  Your 
hands  clapi:)ed  in  unison  with  all  the  others  for  the  brave  sol- 
dier who  had  at  last  won  his  fight. 

This  was  last  month. 

(106) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  107 

Where  is  the  author  now?  Dead.  You  will  read  his  name 
in  the  list  of  "The  Late."  His  Fame  still  rings  around  the 
world,  but,  alas!  his  ears  are  too  dull  to  hear.  You  may  hand 
him  ever  so  many  crowns  of  laurel,  ever  so  many  wreaths  of 
flowers;  his  closed  eyes  cannot  see,  his  frozen  hands  cannot  hold. 

Yonder,  again,  was  the  statesman,  the  politician,  if  you  like. 
Last  month,  what  a  robust  figure  was  his!  How  he  bustled,  how 
he  shoved,  how  he  aspired,  how  he  intrigued!  With  what  im- 
mense vitality  did  he  strive  to  lift  his  voice  above  other  voices, 
his  head  above  other  heads!  What  schemes  did  fill  his  busy 
brain!  Throughout  all  the  walks  of  life  there  was  not  a  man 
more  active,  more  resolute,  more  full  of  pluck  and  ambition. 
He  clashed  against  his  foes  with  a  force  that  made  the  arena 
ring.  He  would  shiver  a  spear  with  any  challenger  who  struck 
his  shield.  Ardently  he  sought  honors,  fiercely  he  combatted 
opposition,  tirelessly  he  served  friends — hoping  that  they  would 
serve  him,  in  turn. 

That  was  last  month.  All  eyes  followed  him  as  he  gallant- 
ly rode  down  the  lists,  armed,  from  golden  spear  to  plume- 
dressed  helm,  seeking  in  honorable  strife  to  bear  away  the  prize, 
and  live  a  space  in  the  huzzas  of  brave  men,  in  the  smiles  of 
lovely  women  . 

That  was  last  month,  and  now,  it  is  all  over.  Death  struck 
him  as  he  rode.  The  lance  fell  from  his  hand,  his  good  steed 
gallops  on,  riderless.  The  brave  Knight  will  seek  the  prize  no 
more.    His  name  appears  on  the  list  of  "The  Late." 

And  so  it  all  goes: — sad,  heart-breakingly  sad.  And  it  can- 
not be  helped.  We  have  trodden  down  the  dead  of  last  month: 
the  living  will  tread  us  down,  next  month. 

Preach  peace  as  much  as  you  will,  and  preach  love  and  char- 
ity. May  their  kingdom  come.  May  they  rule  the  world.  They 
do  not  rule  it  now. 

However  much  we  wish  to  disbelieve  it,  the  race  is  mostly 
to  the  swift,  the  battle  to  the  strong. 

The  strong  nation  oppresses  the  weaker  nation;  the  strong 
man,  the  weaker  man. 

You  hold  your  place  in  life,  as  in  a  battle-field.  You  hold 
it  by  being  able  to  hold  it.    When  your  strength  fails,  you  retreat. 

Bismarck  grows  old — and  is  forced  ofT  the  stage:  Glad- 
stone decays,  and  the  reins  spurn  his  palsied  hands. 

I  look  over  the  list  of  "The  Late,"  and  I  read  the  name  of 
one  I  knew.     Was  he  my  foe?    Was  there  enmity  between  us? 

Alas,  how  pale  and  worthless  the  feud  now  aj^pears.  My 
passion  is  all  gone.  His  white  hand  seems  to  wave  me  a  flag 
of  truce.  Death  obliterates  his  faults  (if  indeed,  they  were  his 
faults  and  not  my  prejudices),  and  I  recall  whatever  was  manly 


108  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

and  strong  and  admirable  in  him.  I  review  our  differences, 
mourn  over  the  estrangement,  and  grieve  that  malice  ever  arose 
between  us.  The  way  so  short,  the  time  for  joy  so  brief,  human 
ills  of  the  inevitable  sort  so  numerous,  that  it  seems  to  me  now  a 
supreme  pity  that  we  wilfully  added  to  the  thorns  which  beset 
the  journey. 

Was  "The  Late"  my  friend?  Was  the  dead  man  one  who 
had  loved  me,  sympathized  with  me,  stood  by  my  side  in  some 
hour  of  danger,  come  to  my  relief,  when  I  was  friendless,  poor, 
and  down-hearted? 

Then  indeed  what  terrible  words  are  these,  "The  Late."  I 
cannot  see  them  through  the  mist  of  tears.  I  see  only  the  white 
face  of  my  friend.  I  think  only  of  those  folded  hands,  that 
loyal  heart  which  beats  no  more. 

Reader,  some  day  our  names  will  go  into  the  columns  of 
"The  Late."  The  list  is  there,  and  our  names  will  be  written  into 
the  blank,  after  a  while. 

To  us  it  will  not  matter  at  all  what  the  world  may  think, 
or  may  say,  when  it  reads  our  names  in  the  list.  We  will  be 
at  rest  then — so  far  as  the  world  is  concerned.  Love  cannot  reach 
us — nor  malice,  thank  God!  Misconstruction,  envy,  hatred,  can 
hurt  us  no  more.  It  matters  not  what  the  world  will  say,  except 
in  so  far  as  the  world  speaks  the  Truth  ! 

While  we  lived,  the  False  may  have  worked  us  enormous 
harm.    It  can  never  harm  us  again.    The  True  will  reign  supreme. 

While  we  lived,  we  found  lies  to  be  much  more  terrible  things 
than  the  Sunday-school  books  (and  others)  had  prepared  us 
to  believe.  We  found  that  lies  had  power  to  damn,  so  far  as  the 
world  was  concerned.  We  found  that  the  people  were  ignorant, 
credulous,  easily  duped,  and  falsely  led.  We  found  that  a  lie, 
repeated  every  day,  became  practically  the  truth.  We  found  that 
the  public  scarcely  knew  the  whole  truth  about  anything,  and 
that  the  people  were  designedly  kept  weltering  in  lies,  and  half- 
truths  (which  were  more  deceptive  than  lies)  in  order  that  the 
"powers  that  be"  could  continue  to  misrule.  We  found  that  the 
world  had  become  so  wedded  by  custom  to  this  system,  that  it 
was  hardly  possible  to  tell  the  people  the  whole  truth  upon  any 
subject  whatever. 

But  all  the  while  you  felt  that  a  lie  was  a  despicable  thing — 
a  thing  preordained  to  death  and  damnation.  Deep  down  in 
your  soul,  you  felt  that  there  was  finally  no  hope  of  your  landing 
your  feet  on  the  eternal  rocks,  unless  you  fought  lies,  and 
championed  Truth. 

Did  you  do  it? — That  is  the  question  which  then  assumes 
terrible  importance. 

Can  it  be  truly  said  that  you  loved  Truth  and  Right,  Justice 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  109 

and  Mercy?  Can  it  be  truly  said  that  your  heart  turned  always 
to  humanity,  and  strove  ever  for  better  things?  Can  it  be  said 
that  Duty,  as  you  understood  it,  was  your  gospel,  from  first  to 
last,  through  good  report  and  evil,  through  cloudy  days  and  fair? 

Or,  did  you  bend  and  twist,  here  and  there,  first  one  way  and 
then  the  other,  true  to  nobody,  true  to  no  conception  of  right, 
fawning  upon  wrong  to  get  a  part  of  the  fruits  thereof,  adding 
your  voice  to  the  clamor  of  Ignorance  and  Superstition,  and  Pre- 
judice, and  Evil,  in  order  that  you  might  be  one  of  a  dominant 
majority?  Did  you  lay  down  your  manhood  at  the  feet  of 
Error,  knowing  it  to  be  Error,  and  join  in  the  carnival  of  Wrong, 
simply  because  the  greater  numbers  were  on  that  side? 

Did  you  put  your  soul  into  bondage  knowing  that  it  was  a 
Falsehood  you  obeyed? 

These,  and  these  only,  will  be  the  vital  questions,  when  we 
shall  have  left  "the  quick"  and  joined  "the  dead." 

God  pity  us  all! 

And  may  Truth,  the  handmaiden  of  the  Most  High,  claim  us 
as  votaries,  in  that  dread  dav  when  we  shall  have  been  added 
to  the  hosts  of  "The  Late." 


The  Old  Packet  Boat  by  the  James 

'X^  HE  train  was  slowing  down  for  Lynchburg;  passengers  were 
-*•  rising  from  their  seats,  getting  ready  to  leave  the  cars; 
my  companion  leaned  over  me  and  pointed  to  a  distant  object 
on  the  far  bank  of  the  James,  and  said:  "See  that  old  boat  up 
there  under  the  trees?  General  Jackson's  body  was  carried  in 
that  from  Lynchburg  to  Lexington." 

In  the  swift  view  of  it  which  I  got,  as  the  train  carried  us  on, 
it  appeared  to  be  a  low,  irregular  hut,  squatting  there  discon- 
solately, dilapidated  and  forlorn. 

And  that  was  the  hearse  which  bore  toward  its  last  resting 
place,  "at  Lexington,  in  the  Valley  of  Virginia,"  the  corpse  of  one 
of  the  greatest  soldiers  the  world  has  known. 

The  instantaneous  photograph  of  the  old  boat,  which  that 
fleeting  glimpse  of  it  made  on  my  mind,  will  never  fade.  For  it 
fired  the  long  train  of  memory,  and  the  whole  of  "Stonewall" 
Jackson's  phenomenal  career  seemed  to  form  the  background  of 
the  mental  picture  of  the  old  boat. 

His  early  life  of  poverty,  orphanage  and  disease;  his  indomit- 
able determination  to  get  on;  his  record  at  West  Point,  where 
his  angularity  and  industry  were  his  most  noticeable  traits  of 
character:  then  his  services  in  the  Mexican  war,  where  he  was 
somewhat  of  a  rollicking  officer,  brave  as  his  sword,  full  of  dash, 
but  also  full  of  fun.  Quartered  in  the  "Halls  of  the  Montezumas," 
he  threw  himself  into  the  social  pleasures  which  followed  so  soon 
upon  the  close  of  the  fighting.  No  officer  in  the  army  was  fonder 
of  the  society  of  the  beautiful  Mexican  ladies ;  and  in  order  that 
he  might  the  better  enjoy  their  company,  he  mastered  the  Spanish 
tongue.  Then  came  the  service  in  the  Seminole  war,  in  which 
there  were  no  laurels  to  be  gained. 

Professor  in  the  Virginia  Military  Institute,  Jackson  was 
regarded  as  an  oddity,  and  nothing  more.  The  boys  played 
all  sorts  of  pranks  off  on  him,  and  the  Faculty  held  him  as  an 
almost  negligible  quantity.  Because  he  was  so  strict,  angular, 
and  rigid,  Jackson  was  not  popular  with  the  gay  young  fellows 
who  came  there  to  loiter  their  way  through  to  graduation.  At 
school  he  had  been  nicknamed  "Fool  Tom  Jackson";  and  now 
that  he  was  a  teacher  of  boys,  the  same  tendency  to  provoke 
ridicule  clung  to  him.  On  the  drill  ground  the  pieces  of  artillery, 
in  default  of  horses,  were  drawn  by  the  students:  to  tease  and 
annoy  Jackson,  these  artillery  teams  would  pretend  to  get  fright- 

(110) 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES 


111 


ened,  during  the  maneuvers,  and  would  "run  away"  with  the 
cannon. 

When  I  was  at  Lexington  a  few  years  ago,  a  member  of  the 
Faculty  who  was  attached  to  the  College  at  the  time  Jackson 
was  a  teacher  there,  told  me,  as  an  evidence  of  Jackson's  self- 
control,  that  on  one  occasion,  when  a  student  who  nursed  a 
grudge  against  the  strict  Professor,  threw  a  brick-bat  at  him. 


THE   OLD   PACKET   BOAT   BY   THE   JAMES 

from  behind,  as  he  was  taking  his  walk  in  the  grounds,  Jackson 
did  not  so  much  as  turn  his  head. 

This  gentleman  also  told  me  that  the  Faculty  of  the  Insti- 
tute were  considering  the  matter  of  dispensing  with  the  chair 
filled  by  Jackson,  when  the  Civil  War  broke  out,  and  the  angu- 
lar Professor  was  called  to  the  field. 

They  showed  me  the  very  commonplace  house  which  was 
Jackson's  home  in  Lexington,  and  it  aroused  in  me  emotions 
which  no  palace  on  this  earth  would  stir: — a  very  modest  house, 
with  an  ugly  location, — for  its  front  wall  is  flush  with  the  side- 
walk,— standing  on  a  side  street,  near  the  centre  of  a  town  which 
occupies  a  site  of  great  natural  beauty. 

And  that  was  the  "Garden  of  Brienne"  of  Stonewall  Jack- 
son! The  place  where  he  buried  himself  in  study,  standing  at  his 
desk,  without  book  or  paper,  concentrating  his  thought  intensely 
upon  all  that  he  had  reac^  during  the  study-hours  of  the  day. 
Then,  when  the  clock  struck  nine — not  before  it  began  to  strike, 
•and  not  until  the  ninth  stroke  had  sent  its  record-voice  to  the 
past, — did  the  rigid  student  throw  off  the  shackles  of  discipline, 


112  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

and  begin  to  romp  with  the  children,  on  the  floor,  or  mingle  in  the 
light  and  familiar  conversation  of  the  household. 

For  the  odd  Professor,  whom  nobody  understood,  but  who  was 
thoroughly  respected  by  every  sober-minded  person  that  knew 
him,  had  somehow  or  other  won  the  heart  of  a  beautiful  young 
woman,  had  made  her  his  wife,  and  was  now  a  beloved  member 
of  her  family. 

Margaret  J.  Preston  is  known  to  almost  every  one  who 
reads,  but  her  sister  Eleanor  is  remembered  by  the  few,  only,  who 
know  that  it  was  she  whose  loveliness  of  person  and  character 
completely  subdued  the  shy  and  complex  character  of  the  Pro- 
fessor, converted  him  to  her  own  religious  faith,  gave  him  the 
first  inclination  toward  becoming  devout,  and  by  her  untimely 
death,  after  one  year  of  domestic  happiness,  gave  him  a  sorrow 
that  darkened  the  remainder  of  his  life. 


To  me,  ''Stonewall"  Jackson  seems  to  belong  to  the  class  of 
Havelock  and  "Chinese"  Gordon.  Like  those  great  soldiers,  he 
was  a  religious  fanatic.  Like  them,  he  was  a  mystic.  Had  he 
been  made  Commander-in-Chief,  in  some  war  fought  for  the 
sake  of  religion,  he  would  probably  have  developed  into  the 
Greatest  of  Great  Captains.  As  it  was,  I  see  in  Jackson,  as  in 
Lee,  a  curious  occasional  apathy.  Somehow^,  I  get  the  idea  that, 
while  both  were  absolutely  loyal  to  the  Southern  Confederacy, 
unselfish  and  unsparing  of  themselves  in  the  service,  neither 
Jackson  nor  Robert  E.  Lee  had  that  supreme  confidence,  that 
whole-hearted  passion  of  purpose,  which  is  so  essential  to  success. 

Both  Jackson  and  Lee  were  at  their  best  when  repelling 
invasion.  The  presence  of  Northern  troops  in  the  Valley, 
aroused  all  the  lion  in  Stonewall  Jackson,  and  he  put  forth  the 
terrible  energy  which  made  that  campaign  immortal.  The  ap- 
proach of  the  Northern  hosts  upon  Richmond  had  a  similar  effect 
upon  General  Lee;  he  rose  to  the  crisis  and  was  the  Great  Cap- 
tain— some  say  the  greatest  of  all  the  soldiers  produced  by  the 
Anglo-Saxon  race.  But  once  the  supreme  danger  to  native  land 
had  passed,  neither  Lee  nor  Jackson  pressed  their  advantages 
home,  with  the  ruthless  purpose  of  destroying  the  enemy,  as  each 
would  have  done,  had  they  been  fighting  any  other  people  save 
their  own  flesh  and  blood. 

The  blundering,  disastrous  pursuit  of  McClellan,  as  he  fell  back 
to  the  James,  after  the  fighting  around  Richmond,  shows  this. 
The  Southern  army  would  have  been  immensely  better  off  had  it 
simply  kcjit  in  sight  of  the  enemy,  comjielling  him  to  continue  the 
retreat  by  threatening  his  flank  and  his  base  of  supplies.  In  fact. 
Gen.  E.  P.  Alexander,  in  his  most  valuable  book  of  Reminiscences, 


PROSE  MISCELLANIEIS 


113 


describes  the  conduct  of  Stonewall  Jackson,  during  the  retreat 
of  McClellan,  in  a  way  that  leaves  no  doubt  of  the  great  com- 
mander's lack  of  mental  energy  during  the  pursuit. 

The  gentlemanly  manner  in  which  General  Lee  conducted  his 
operations  each  time  that  he  invaded  the  enemy's  country,  proves 
my  analysis  to  be  correct.  Think  of  Wellington,  or  Blucher,  or 
Napoleon,  or  Marlborough,  scolding  his  troops,   furiously,   for 


GENERAL  ROBERT   E.   LEE 


taking  apples  from  the  orchards  of  the  foe,  or  for  making  a  camp- 
fire  out  of  his  fence-rails! 

An  old  soldier,  who  now  lives  at  Sugar  Valley,  Georgia, 
l)ublished  a  letter  in  my  paper,  in  which  he  told  how  General 
Lee,  in  high  wrath,  called  him  a  ''thief,"  a  "disgrace  to  the  army," 
and  other  "hard  names,"  because  the  soldier,  hungry  and  tired, 
had  taken  some  fruit  from  an  orchard,  and  was  trying  to  satisfy 
his  hunger  with  it.    This  was  during  the  invasion  of  Pennsylvania. 

It  was  the  highest  degree  creditable  to  Robert  E.  Lee  that 
he  would  order  one  of  his  men  to  "put  that  rail  back  on  that 
fence," — but  is  that  the  spirit  which  wins,  in  war?  It  ought  to 
be,  I  grant  you, — but  is  it?  There  used  to  be  much  of  that  noble 
spirit  in  the  days  of  Chivalry,  and  in  the  days  when  the  French 
officers  were  supposed  to  say  to  the  foe,  "Gentlemen  of  the 
English  Guard,  we  never  fire  first." 


114  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

But  whatever  remains  of  that  spirit  were  left  in  Europe,  the 
era  of  Napoleon  swept  awa}';  and  ever  since  he  scandalized  the 
decorous  Austrian  officers,  by  fighting  them  in  any  way  that 
meant  most  damage  to  them, — rules  or  no  rules, — ^the  practice 
has  been  the  reverse  of  chivalrous.  The  ruthlessness  of  Grant, 
Sherman,  Sheridan,  and  Rosecrans,  was  most  ungentlemanly, — 
but  most  effective. 

Had  our  West  Point  generals  waged  war  upon  the  North 
with  the  same  destructive  fury,  the  result  of  the  conflict  might 
have  been  different. 

*  *  *  %  *  * 

And  the  old  boat  crouches  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  slowly 
settling  down  into  ruin.  Thirsty,  feverish,  money-loving  Com- 
mercialism hurries  by,  giving  the  lonely  derelict  a  merely  casual 
glance.  And  yet  the  sight  of  it  calls  up  so  much  to  those  who 
knew  the  past. 

I  close  my  eyes  and  hear  again  the  peal  of  thunder  and  see 
the  distant  lightning,  as  Stonewall  Jackson  crashes  against  the 
Union  flank  at  Chancellorsville.  I  hear  the  "ten  thousand  whip- 
poorwills"  of  whom  Gen.  Jeb  Stuart  spoke  afterwards;  I  see  the 
Confederates  struggle  forward  in  the  dense  scrub  woods;  the 
Federals  scatter  in  confusion  and  Howard's  Corps  is  annihilated; 
the  rapid  advance  of  Jackson's  men  has  broken  their  own  forma- 
tion and  there  is  a  perilous  confusion;  the  enemy,  in  a  desperate 
attempt  at  salvation,  plants  a  battery  and  shells  the  turnpike; 
a  momentary  halt  is  made  by  the  Confederates,  and  Jackson, 
caught  up  in  the  concentration  of  a  great  purpose,  rides  too  far, 
too  far  to  the  front;  Mdth  all  his  might  he  is  pushing  around 
to  the  enemy's  rear,  to  cut  him  off  from  the  United  States  ford, 
and  take  his  entire  army  prisoners,  or  destroy  it! 

Alas,  he  rides  too  far  into  the  darkness,^ — no  picket  line  pro- 
tects him  from  the  enemy  and  he  comes  within  their  musket 
range,  is  fired  upon,  gallops  back  toward  his  own  men — who  have 
orders  to  fire  on  cavalry  and  who  do  not  know  that  Stonewall 
has  ridden  beyond  them — is  fired  upon  by  liis  men  and  is  carried, 
here  and  yonder,  by  his  frenzied  horse,  is  at  length  lifted  from 
the  saddle  to  the  ground,  where  he  lies  beneath  a  tremendous 
cannonade  of  the  enemy,  with  a  drawn  face,  white  with  pain, 
turned  up  to  the  moon. 

"My  God!   it's  General  Jackson!"   cried   a   soldier,   march- 
ing by:  and  in  a  few  days  the  heartbroken  wail  rang  tiirough- 
out  the  South,  "My  God;  Stonewall  Jackson  is  dead." 
******* 

Whether  Gen.  Jackson  assumed  that  a  picket  line  had  been 
thrown  out  in  front,  or  whether  his  act  in  riding  forward  was 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES 


116 


incident  to  his  absorption  in  his  great  purpose,  can  never  be 
known.  During  the  days  of  patient  suffering  wliich  preceded 
his  death— the  death  of  a  resigned,  undoubtmg  Christian— he 
made  no  effort  to  account  for  what  had  occurred.  A  pathetic 
detail  however,  is  that  those  who  saw  him  just  after  he  was 
shot  relate  that  his  expression  was  one  of  utter  astonishment^ 
But 'the  iron  lips  closed  down  and  he  said  nothing.  Nothing.^ 
Nothing  about  the  calamity  that  had  befallen  /im. 

But  when  Gen.  Pender  expressed  a  doubt  of  being  able  to 
hold  his  advance,  an  exposed  and  temporarily  unsupported 
position,  Jackson's  order  came,  prompt,  stern,  emphatic: 


-'l*^\^^^^ 


"STONEWALL"   JACKSON 

"You  must  hold  your  ground,  General  Pender!     You  must 

hold  your  ground,  Sir!"  ,     ,      •+!      .;„ 

Faint  with  loss  of  blood,  unable  to  stand,  racked  with  pain, 
the  soldierly  instinct  and  heroic  spirit  were  masters  to  the  end: 
"Hold  your  ground!" 

At  the  first  Manassas,  Gen.  Thomas  Jonathan  Jackson 
would  not  give  ground  to  the  enemy,  was  immovable  and  con- 
fident, when  the  wrecks  of  broken  brigades  were  all  arounj 
him,  and  so  won  the  title  by  which  his  people  prefer  to  call 
him.  It  was  fitting  that  his  last  order  on  the  field  of  battle 
should  have  been  just  what  it  was:  "You  must  hold  your  ground, 
Sir!" 


116  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

•Gen.  Pender  was  a  brave  officer,  and  Gen.  Lee's  official  report 
of  Chancellorsville  makes  mention  of  the  conspicuous  gallantry 
displayed  by  him,  in  the  battle  on  the  day  after  Jackson's  fall. 

*  «•  *  *  *  i<-  « 

There  never  was  a  sublimer  funeral  given  to  any  National 
hero  than  the  South  gave  her  ideal  soldier,  Stonewall  Jackson. 
Not  only  was  he  mourned  by  the  weeping  thousands  who  fol- 
lowed his  body  to  Richmond,  but  it  is  a  literal  fact  that  in 
every  city  and  town  throughout  the  Confederacy,  there  were 
outbursts  of  grief  that  betokened  a  universal  sorrow.  Even 
now,  there  is  no  subject — none  whatever — that  moves  the  aver- 
age Southern  man  more  quickly  and  more  profoundly  than  that 
of  Jackson, — his  purity,  his  consecration,  his  sublime  unselfish- 
ness, his  beautiful  and  grand  simplicity,  his  profound  and  un- 
obstrusive  piety,  his  dramatic  and  tragic  fall  in  the  hour  of 
glorious  victory,  his  fortitude  in  suffering,  his  touching  sub- 
mission to  the  will  of  God. 


I  turn  to  the  Diarv  kept  by  Margaret  J.  Preston.  The  date 
is  May  5th,  (1863). 

Here  is  the  entry: 

"Today  brings  news  of  a  terrible  battle — but  no  particulars; 
only  that  Gen.  Frank  Paxton  is  killed,  Jackson  and  A.  P.  Hill 
wounded." 

"May  7th:  Another  day  of  awful  suspense.  Not  a  solitary 
letter  or  person  has  come  from  the  army  to  Lexington;  only  a 
telegram  from  Governor  Letcher,  announcing  that  Captain  Green- 
lee Davidson  is  killed;  his  body  and  Paxton's  are  expected  to- 
morrow.   What  fearful  times  we  live  in!" 

"Friday,  8th:  Today  we  hear  that  Gen.  Jackson's  arm  is 
amputated  and  that  he  is  wounded  in  the  right  hand.  How 
singular  that  it  should  have  been  done  through  mistake  by  a 
volley  from  his  own  men.     It  happened  at  midnight  Saturday." 

"May  10th,  Sabbath:  This  afternoon  Dr.  White  attempted 
to  hold  service;  but  just  as  he  was  beginning,  the  mail  arrived, 
and  so  great  was  the  excitement,  and  so  intense  the  desire  for 
news,  that  he  was  obliged  to  dismiss  the  congregation.  We 
only  hear  of  one  more  death  among  the  Lexington  boys,  young 
Imboden.  Several  wounded;  this  is  much  better  than  we  had 
dared  to  hope." 

"May  12th,  Tuesday:  Last  night  I  sat  at  his  desk  writing  a 
letter  to  General  Jackson,  urging  him  to  come  up  and  stay  with 
us,  as  soon  as  his  wound  would  permit  him  to  move.  /  ivent 
downstairs  this  morning,  with  the  letter  in  my  hand,  and  was 
met  by  the  overwhelmincj  news  that  JACKSON  WAS  DEAD!" 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES  117 

"A  telegram  had  been  sent  to  Col.  Smith  by  a  courier  from 
Staunton.  Doubt  was  soon  thrown  upon  this  by  the  arrival  of 
someone  from  Richmond,  who  said  he  had  left  when  the  tele- 
gram did  and  there  was  no  such  rumor  in  Richmond.  So,  be- 
tween alternate  hope  and  fear,  the  day  passed.  It  was  saddened 
by  the  bringing  home  of  General  Paxton's  remams,  and  by  his 
funeral  At  five  this  evening  the  startling  confirmation  comes— 
Jackson  is  indeed  dead !  My  heart  overflows  with  sorrow.  The 
grief  in  this  community  is  intense ;  everybody  is  in  tears.  What 
a  release  from  his  weary  two  years'  warfare.  To  be  released 
into  the  blessedness  and 'peace  of  heaven!  .  .  .  How  fearfid 
the  loss  to  the  Confederacv!  The  people  made  an  idol  of  him 
and  God  has  rebuked  them.  No  more  ready  soul  has  ascended 
to  the  throne  than  was  his.  Never  have  I  seen  a  human  being 
as  thoroughlv  governed  bv  dutv.  He  lived  only  to  please  God; 
his  dailv  life  was  a  daily^ffering  up  of  himself.  All  his  letters 
to  Mr.  P.  and  to  me  since  the  war  began,  have  breathed  the  spirit 
of  a  saint.  In  his  last  letter  to  me,  he  spoke  of  our  precious 
Ellie,  and  the  blessedness  of  being  with  her  in  heaven.  And 
now  'he  has  joined  her,  and  together  they  unite  in  ascribing 
praises  to  Him  who  has  redeemed  them  by  His  blood.  Oh,  the 
havoc  death  is  making!  The  beautiful  sky  and  the  rich,  per- 
fumed air  seemed  darkened  by  oppressive  sorrow.  Who  thinks 
or  speaks  of  victory?  The  word  is  scarcely  ever  heard.  Alas! 
Alas!    When  is  the  end  to  be?" 

"May  15th,  Friday:  General  Jackson  was  buried  today, 
amid  the  flowing  tears  of  a  vast  concourse  of  people.  By  a 
strange  coincidence,  two  cavalry  companies  happened  to  be  pass- 
ing through  Lexington  from  the  West,  just  at  the  hour  of  the 
ceremonies;  they  stopped,  procured  mourning  for  their  colors 
and  joined  the  procession.  .  .  .  The  exercises  were  very  ap- 
propriate; a  touching  voluntary  was  sung  with  subdued,  sobbing 
voices;  a  prayer  from  Dr.  Ramsey  of  most  melting  tenderness ; 
very  true  and  discriminating  remarks  from  Dr.  White,  and  a 

beautiful  prayer  from  W.  F.  J. .     The  coffin  was  draped 

in  the  first  Confederate  flag  ever  made,  and  presented  by  Pres 
Davis  to  Mrs.  Jackson;  it  was  draped  around  the  coffin  and 
on  it  was  laid  multitudes  of  wreaths  and  flowers  which  had  been 
piled  upon  it  all  along  the  sad  journey  to  Richmond  and  thence 
to  Lexington.  The  grave,  too,  was  heaped  with  flowers.^  And 
now  it  is  all  over,  and  the  hero  is  left  'alone  in  his  glory.'  Not 
many  better  men  have  lived  and  died.  His  body-servant  said 
to  me,  T  never  knew  a  piouser  gentleman.'  Sincerer  mourning 
was  never  manifested  for  anyone,  I  do  think.  .  .  .  The  dear 
little  child  is  so  like  her  father;  she  is  a  sweet  thing,  and  will 
be  a  blessing,  I  trust,  to  the  heart-wrung  mother." 


118  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

In  his  "End  of  an  Era,"  John  S.  Wise  writes: 

"It  was  a  bitter,  bitter  day  of  mourning  for  all  of  us  when 
the  corps  was  marched  down  to  the  canal  terminus,  to  meet  all 
that  was  mortal  of  Stonewall  Jackson.  We  had  heard  the  name 
of  every  officer  who  attended  the  remains. 

"With  reversed  arms  and  muffled  drums  we  bore  him  back  to 
the  Institute  and  placed  him  in  the  section-room  in  which  he  had 
taught.  There  the  body  lay  in  state  until  the  following  day. 
The  lilacs  and  early  spring  flowers  were  just  blooming.  The 
number  of  people  who  came  to  view  him  for  the  last  time  was 
immense;  men  and  women  wept  over  his  bier  as  if  his  death  was 
a  personal  affliction;  then  I  saw  that  the  Presbyterians  could 
weep  like  other  folks.  The  flowers  piled  about  the  coffin  hid 
it  and  its  remains  from  view.  I  shall  ever  count  it  a  great 
privilege  that  I  was  one  of  the  guards,  who  through  the  silence 
of  the  night,  and  when  the  crowds  had  departed,  stood  watch 
and  ward  alone  with  the  remains  of  the  great  'Stonewall.' 

"Next  day,  we  buried  him  with  a  pomp  of  woe,  the  cadets 
his  escort  of  honor:  with  minute-guns,  and  tolling  bells  and  most 
impressive  ceremonies,  we  bore  him  to  his  rest.  But  those  cere- 
monies were  to  me  far  less  impressive  than  walking  post  in  that 
bare  section-room,  in  the  still  hours  of  night,  reflecting  that 
there  lay  all  that  was  left  of  one  whose  name  still  thrilled  the 
world. 

"The  burial  of  Stonewall  Jackson  made  a  deep  impression 
upon  the  corps  of  cadets.  It  had  been  our  custom,  when  things 
seemed  to  be  going  amiss  in  the  army,  to  say,  'Wait  until  "Old 
Jack"  gets  there;  he  will  straighten  matters  out.'  We  felt  that 
the  loss  was  irreparable.  The  cold  face  on  which  we  had  looked, 
taught  us  lessons  which  have  been  dropped  from  the  curriculum 
in  these  tame  days  of  peace. 

"Many  a  cadet  resolved  that  he  would  delay  no  longer  in 
offering  his  services  to  his  country,  and,  although  the  end  of  the 
session  was  near  at  hand,  several  refused  to  remain  longer,  and 
resigned  at  once." 


An  Incident  in  the  Life  of 
Epenetus  Alexis  Steed 

PPENETUS  ALEXIS  STEED:  June  6,  1829 — November  9,  1885. 
^  Minister  and  Teacher:  Graduate  (Second  Honor)  Mercer  Uni- 
versity, 1851:  Chair  of  Ancient  Languages,  Mississippi  College  at 
Clinton;  Pastor  of  Thomson  Baptist  Church,  Sweetwater,  Greenwood 
and  Pine  Grove:   Chair  of  Latin,  Mercer  University,   1872-1885. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  used  to  say  that  he  had  never  met  any  man 
from  whom  he  could  not  learn  something.  No  matter  how 
ignorant  the  humblest  citizen  may  appear  to  be,  the  chances  arc 
that  he  knows  a  few  things  which  you  do  not  know;  and  if  you 
will  "draw  him  out,"  you  will  add  to  your  knowledge. 

The  Virginia  negro  who  happened  to  pass  along  the  road 
while  the  Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United 
States  was  puzzling  his  brains  over  the  problem  of  mending  his 
broken  sulky-shaft,  knew  exactly  the  one  thing  which  John 
Marshall  then  needed  to  know. 

The  great  lawyer  was  at  his  wit's  end,  helpless  and  wretched 
How  could  he  mend  that  broken  shaft,  and  continue  his  journey? 
He  did  not  know,  and  he  turned  to  the  negro  for  instruction. 

With  an  air  of  superiority  which  was  not  offensive  at  that 
particular  moment,  the  negro  drew  his  pocket  knife,  stepped  into 
the  bushes,  cut  a  sapling,  whittled  a  brace,  and  spliced  the  broken 
shaft. 

When  the  Chief  Justice  expressed  his  wonder,  admiration  and 
pleasure,  the  negro  calmly  accepted  the  tribute  to  his  talent — 
and  walked  off,  remarking:  "Some  folks  has  got  sense,  and  some 
ain't  got  none." 

******* 

That  anecdote  is  a  hundred  years  old,  but  it's  a  right  good 
little  story.  A  school-teacher,  whom  I  loved  very  dearly,  told 
it  to  me,  when  I  was  a  lad.  He  was  the  only  man  I  ever  knew 
who  had  it  in  him  to  be  a  great  man,  and  who  refused  to  strive 
for  great  things,  because,  as  he  said,  "It  isn't  worth  the  trouble." 

He  was  naturally  as  great  an  orator  as  Blaine  or  Ben  Hill. 
But  after  one  of  his  magnificent  displays  of  oratory,  he  would 
sink  back  into  jolly  indolence,  and  pursue  the  even  tenor  of 
his  way,  teaching  school.  "It  is  not  worth  while.  Let  the  other 
fellow  toil  and  struggle  for  fame  and  for  office:  I  don't  care. 
They  are  not  worth  the  price." 

(119) 


120 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES 


Few  knew  what  was  in  this  obscure  teaclier;  but  those  few 
knew  him  to  be  a  giant.  Once,  at  our  College  Commencement, 
(Mercer  University,  1880),  the  speaker  who  had  been  invited 
to  make  the  regular  address  was  the  crack  orator  of  the  State. 
He  was  considered  a  marvel  of  eloquence.  Well,  he  came  and 
he  delivered  his  message;  and  it  was  all  very  chaste  and  ele- 
gant and  superb.     Indeed,  a  fine  speech.     He  sat  down  amid 


EPENETUS  ALEXIS  STEED 


loud  applause.  Everybody  satisfied.  Then  the  obscure  genius 
to  whom  I  have  referred  rose  to  talk.  By  some  chance,  the 
Faculty  had  given  him  a  place  on  the  program. 

I  looked  at  my  old  school-teacher,  as  he  waddled  quietly 
to  the  front.  I  saw  that  his  face  was  pale,  and  his  eyes  blazing. 
I  felt  that  the  presence  and  the  speech  of  the  celebrated  orator 
had  aroused  the  indolent  giant.  I  know  he  would  carry  that 
crowd  by  storm — would  rise,  rise  into  the  very  azure  of  elo- 
quence, and  hover  above  us,  like  an  eagle  in  the  air. 

And  he  did. 

Men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  laughed  and  cheered  and 


PROSE  MISCELLANIES 


121 


cried,  and  hung  breathless  on  his  every  word,  as  no  crowd  ever 
does  unless  a  born  orator  gets  hold  of  it.  Actually,  I  got  to 
feeling  sorry  for  the  celebrity  who  had  made  the  set  speech.  He 
sat  there  looking  like  a  cheap  piece  of  neglected  toywork  of  last 
Christmas. 

The  faces  of  the  leading  people,  after  my  old  teacher  had 
sat  down,  were  a  study.  The  expression  seemed  to  say,  "Who 
would  have  thought  it  was  in  him?" 


SEATED,  ON  LEFT,  PROF.  E.  A.  STEED,  THOS.   W. 

STEED   AT   RIGHT.      STANDING:     JAMES 

HAMILTON  ON  RIGHT;  L.   CARLTON 

SMITH.    ON    LEFT 


I  did  not  applaud:  No.  But  I  looked  at  my  old  teacher, 
through  a  mist  of  happy  tears;  and  my  lips  quivered,  uncon- 
trollably:   he  saw  it;   and  I  think  he  was  deeply  pleased. 

We  talked  of  it,  later,  in  our  chummy  way ;  and  we  laughed 
over  the  surprise  he  had  given  everybody.     I  never  saw  him. 


again. 


122  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

I  don't  think  he  ever  made  another  speech. 
The  brilHant  eyes  will  blaze  no  more.  The  merry  smile  faded, 
long  ago.    That  great  head,  fit  to  bear  a  crown,  lies  low,  for  all 
the  years  to  come. 

He  left  no  lasting  memorial  to  his  genius.  Only,  as  through 
a  glass,  darkly,  you  may  see  him  in  a  book  called  "Bethany," 
written  by  one  in  whom  he,  the  unambitious,  kindled  the  spark 
of  an  ambition  that  will  never  die. 


Fortitude 


Do  not  become  discouraged !    Don't  lose  heart. 
You  may  not  be  able  to  see  the  harvest  where  you  have 
patiently  sown  the  seed,  but  be  assured  of  this:     No  seed  is 
lost. 

The  truthful  word  manfully  spoken,  the  earnest  effort  hon- 
estly made,  the  noble  creed  consistently  held, — these  are  things 
which  do  not  perish;  they  live  on  and  move  the  world  and  mold 
the  destinies  of  men,  long  after  you  are  dust. 

Leave  cowardice  to  the  cowards ;  leave  servility  to  the  slaves. 
Be  a  man — proud,  though  in  homespun;    free,  though  in  a  hut. 

Own  your  own  soul ! 

Dare  to  listen  to  your  own  heartbeat.  Between  you  and 
God's  sunlight,  let  no  shadow  of  fear  fall. 

What  is  there  to  live  for,  if  you  are  never  to  think,  never 
to  speak,  never  to  act,  save  as  the  echo  of  some  master!  Better 
the  death  of  the  brave  than  the  long  misery  of  the  mental  serf. 

Not  always  is  it  easy  to  know  the  right, — very  often  is  the 
road  rough.  Human  praise  can  be  won  by  shorter  routes.  Hon- 
ors and  riches  are  not  always  its  rewards.  Pleasanter  days 
and  calmer  nights  may  be  yours,  if  you  float  smoothly  down  the 
tide  of  policy, — steering  deftly  by  the  rules  of  the  expedient. 

But  has  life  nothing  loftier  than  this?  Is  there  no  divine 
voice  within  you  that  calls  for  better  things?  Is  there  no  great 
pulse-beat  of  duty  within  you, — no  flame  of  the  warrior  spirit, 
when  insolent  wrong  flings  its  gage  of  battle  at  your  feet? 

Are  you  willing  that  the  Right  shall  call  for  aid,  and  you 
give  no  succor;  that  Truth  shall  plead  for  help,  and  you  bear 
no  witness? 

Is  the  sacred  torch  of  Liberty — passed  on  from  hand  to  hand, 
down  the  ages  in  which  brave  men  dared  to  keep  it  lit — to 
find  you  unwilling  to  hold  it  aloft? 

Shall  the  temple  of  civic  freedom,  reared  by  the  great  men 
who  are  gone,  stand  vacant, — calling  mutely,  calling  vainly  for 
votaries  at  the  shrine? 

Was  it  all  a  mockery, — this  long  struggle  your  forefathers 
made  for  Justice?  Is  it  an  idle  tale — this  story  of  the  heroism 
with  which  the  rights  of  the  people  were  slowly  won? 

Not  so — not  so!  Levity  may  slight,  and  ignorance  may  dis- 
regard the  blessed  heir-looms  of  human  endeavor,  of  patriotic 
purpose,  of  high-minded  self-sacrifice, — but  they  are  there,  and, 

(123) 


124  PROSE  MISCELLANIES 

like  the  signal  fires  of  the  highlands,  they  call  heroic  hearts  to 
duty! 

You  may  have  desponded,  but  you  must  not  despair.  You 
may  have  stumbled,  but  you  must  not  fall.  You  will  rouse 
yourself,  and  press  forward.  You  will  do  your  duty — for  that 
is  your  religion. 

If  Wrong  triumphs,  it  shall  not  claim  you  as  a  partner  in  the 
crime. 

If  the  light  dies  out  in  the  homes  of  the  people,  the  curse 
of  the  unhappy  shall  not  blast  your  name. 

You  shall  be  a  man, — loyal,  fearless,  independent,  ready  for 
work,  and  loyal  to  the  last,  to  the  creed  which  your  heart  aj)- 
proves. 

Men,  like  these, — and  no  others, — won  every  treasure  in  the 
storehouse  of  liberty,  every  jewel  in  the  crown  of  good  govern- 
ment, every  thread  in  the  golden  tissue  of  religious  and  political 
freedom. 

Men  like  these, — and  no  other, — are  going  to  keep  alive  the 
sacred  fires  our  fathers  kindled,  are  going  to  stamp  out  the 
foul  heresies  that  imperil  our  rights,  are  going  to  fight  to  the 
death  those  who  would  turn  back  the  march  of  human  happiness, 
and  are  going  to  re-dedicate  this  government  to  the  principles 
upon  which  it  was  founded! 

Stand  firm  and  fear  not. 

Brave  men  who  are  nothing  more  than  brave,  rush  into  the 
combat,  get  worsted  and  quit. 

Brave  men,  who  are  something  more  than  brave,  take  no 
defeat  as  final. 


FINIS. 


THE  STORY  o/' FRANCE 


(IN  TWO  VOLUMES) 


BY  THOS.  E.  WATSON 


(New  Edition) 

The  Standard  History  of  France  —  Chosen  by  the 
French  Scholars  as  Such 


PRICE  $6.00,  DELIVERED 

THE  TOM  WATSON  BOOK  COMPANY,  Inc. 
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NAPOLEON 

BY  THOS.  E.  WATSON 


Regarded  by  Critics  and  Scholars  as  One  of  the  Best 
Histories  of  the  Man  of  Destiny 


PRICE  $3.50,  DELIVERED 


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I 


LIFE  AND  TIMES 


OF 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON 


(NEW  EDITION) 


BY  THOS.  E.  WATSON 


In  the  Life  of  Jefferson  you  will  learn  what  Demo- 
cratic principles  are,  and  you  will  learn  much  history 
to  the  credit  of  the  South  and  West,  left  out  by  New 
England  writers. 


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House  of  Hapsburg 


BY  THOS.  E.  WATSON 


A  Historical  Book  giving  a  true  History  of  the 
House,  which  caused  the  upheaval  in  Europe  that  led 
to  the  World's  War. 

Paper  Cover — -Well  Printed — Illustrated 


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HANDBOOK 

OF 

Politics  and  Economics 


BY  THOS.  E.  WATSON 


"Political  and  Economic  Handbook"  contains  475  pages 
printed  well  on  excellent  book  paper  being  in  size  6x9  and 
covered  with  a  stiff  paper  cover.  The  frontispiece  is  a  strik- 
ing photograph  of  the  author.     His  preface  reads: 

In  order  that  Editors.  Speakers,  Lecturers  and  Voters  might 
have  in  the  convenient  storehouse  of  one  volume  all  the 
scattered  information  contained  in  man.v:  and  in  order  that 
thej'  might  have  a  brief  statement  of  the  line  of  argument 
which  we  adopt  upon  all  essential  issues.  I  have  written  this 
book.  I  have  tried  to  fill  it  to  the  brim  with  facts — important 
facts,  undisputed  facts.  I  have  tried  to  make  it  an  armory 
from  which  reformers  can  draw  every  weapon  of  offense  and 
defense."  Thos.  E.  Watson,  Thomson,  Ga.,  November  1st, 
1915. 

We  list  below  a  few  of  tJie  questions  discussed  by  the  author 
to  give  you  some  idea  of  the  trend  of  the  book. 

"Planting  of  Democracy  in  Virginia ;  Slavery ;  Religion ; 
The  Two  Political  Schools  of  Hamilton  and  Jefferson:  The 
Monroe  Doctrine ;  A  Complete  Discussion  of  the  Money 
Question;  The  Panics  of  1893  and  1907;  Railroads  and  Public 
Lands;  Pet  Banks;  Special  Privilege;  A  Chapter  on  Social- 
ism; The  Federal  Judiciary';  the  Greenback  Party;  A  Great 
Crime  in  High  Finance;  Party  Platforms;  The  Roman 
Catholic  Church  in  American  Politics;  Looking  Backward; 
About  the  Peoples  Party;   Watson's  Speech,  etc. 

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Watson's  Magazine 


Before  Mr.  Watson's  death  he  had  bound  one  vol- 
ume of  Watson's  Jeffersonian  Magazmes  consisting 
of  the  last  six  issues  of  1907.  This  volume  contains 
sketches  on  Robert  Toombs,  The  Greatest  of  Women, 
Orthodox  Socialism,  Dream  Children,  The  Negro 
Question,  The  ]\Iost  Original  Poem,  How  I  Came  to 
Write  Napoleon,  As  It  Is  and  As  It  May  Be,  Bubbles 
On  The  Stream.,  etc.  When  our  limited  supply  is  ex- 
hausted these  magazines  will  become  an  unpurchas- 
able  raritv. 


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A  Book  About  the  Socialists 
and  About  Socialism 


In  this  work,  ]Mr.  Watson  takes  up,  one  by  one,  each 
of  the  propositions  of  Karl  Marx,  and  discusses  them 
fully  and  fairly. 

He  also  analyses  the  great  book  of  Herr  Bebel,  the 
world-leader  of  Socialism,  ''Woman  Under  Social- 
ism." 

Mr.  Watson  cites  standard  historical  works  to  prove 
that  Bebel,  ^Nlarx  and  other  Socialist  leaders  are  al- 
together wrong  about, 

The  Origin  of  Prosperity, 

The  Rise  of  the  Marital  Relation, 

The  Cause  of  the  Inequality  of  Wealth,  etc. 

Mr.  Watson  demonstrates  that  Socialism — as  taught 
by  :\Iarx,  Bebel,  LaSalle,  Engel,  etc.— would  anni- 
hilate 

Individuality  and  personal  liberty. 
Home-life  as  we  know  it, 

The  White  Man's  supremacy  over  the  inferior  races. 
The  Marital  relation,  with  its  protection  to  women, 
and  finally 

Religion  of  All  Kinds. 

Air.  Watson  proves  that   SPECIAL  PRIVILEGE 

intrenched  in  law  and  in  government,  is  now,  and  al- 
ways has  been,  the  Great  Enemy  of  the  Human  race. 


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The  WATSONIAN 

DEDICATED 

To  the  Ideals   Espoused 

By 

THOMAS  E.  WATSON 


In  an  effort  to  build  a  monument  to  the  late  Senator 
Thomas  E.  Watson  in  the  form  of  a  monthly  magazine 
we  offer  you  "The  Watsonian." 

Its  policy  always  will  be  to  advocate  Jeffersonian 
and  Watsonian  principles;  "equal  rights  to  all — special 
privileges  to  none;  "fight  for  America  and  Americans 
against  un-American  subjects." 


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THOMSON,  GEORGIA. 


J" 


-#?^( 


V 


SENATOR  WATSON,  like  all  great  authors, 
soared  aloft,  eagle-like,  into  the  higher  and 
purer  air,  and  saw  visions  not  seen  by  the 
great  mass  of  humanity.  He  wrote  vividly 
what  he  saw.  Those  reading  his  masterful  works 
see  the  pictures  which  he  has  drawn  and  marvel 
at  the  almost  superhuman  knowledge  and  vision 
of  the  artist  who  drew  them.  He  indeed  was  one 
of  the  very  greatest  historians  of  all  time.  As  a 
literary  genius  he  ranks  with  the  most  noted.  As 
an  orator  he  thrilled  his  hearers  with  an  eloquence 
which  was  sublime.  He  is  physically  dead,  but  his 
works  and  his  life  are  a  part  of  that  which  is 
immortal. 

He  had  lived,  loved,  and  wrote  in  the  purest 
and  highest  ecstasies  of  thought  which  touch  the 
mystic  realms  of  the  great  unknown.  It  was  a 
beautiful  peaceful  night  when  the  earth  is  closest 
to  heaven.  In  the  silent  hush  which  comes  just 
before  the  dawn  he  reached  out  and  grasped  the 
hand  of  the  Father  and  stepped  across  the  narrow 
chasm  which  divides  life  from  eternity,  and  heard 
from  the  Father  of  us  all  the  plaudit — 

Well  done,  thou  good  and  faithful  servant, 
enter  thou  into  the  joys  ot  thy  Lord. 

—From  House  Memorial  Services  to  Thos.  E.  Watson. 
Representative  Lankford  of  Georgia 


\= 


^ 


